


Inter Se

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, F/M, First Time, Romance, Soul Bond, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. When Bill asks for help, John ends up giving more than he bargained for.<br/></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <img/>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Inter Se

\- — - — - — -  
 **Bind**  
\- — - — - — -

  


John is already in the area when he gets the call.

It's complete coincidence that he's close by. He's coming off the tail end of a hunt—was planning on booking it straight out of town and two or three states over by morning. The moon is high, the night is deep, and John's already bought an extra large coffee to keep him company. All that's left is to turn in the room key, climb behind the wheel—both his boys already asleep in the back seat—and make for the next trail of bodies that needs investigating.

But the phone rings at the front desk just as he's checking out, and the clerk gives him a look and says, "You've got a call, buddy."

It's Bill Harvelle, and his voice is edged with tight, shaky panic. John doesn't bother asking how his friend found him.

"Bill, just calm down," he says, raising his voice into the phone so he can get a word in edgewise. "Tell me what happened."

"How fast can you be at the Roadhouse?" Bill asks, and his voice is shattering glass and worry.

"I'm just a couple hours out," says John, already mapping the route in his head.

"Good," says Bill. "Get here."

John drives as fast as he dares and hits town in just under three hours. He wakes his boys up and checks into a nearby motel—hates to leave them alone, but if bad business is going down at the Roadhouse, he wants them out of harm's way. Dean's getting old enough to take care of Sam, and John will only be gone for a few hours. He tucks them in, tells Dean not to answer the door for anyone, and disappears back into the night. He drives until the Roadhouse rises tall in his headlights, then wastes no time rushing inside.

"Thank god," says Ellen when she sees him. Her soft features are twisted up with fear, and she grabs him by the elbow the second he steps in the door. "This way. In the back." She hustles him across the bar and down a narrow hallway, through a door on the right and into a small bedroom.

Bill sits on the edge of the bed, bent protectively over his daughter's tiny frame.

John has met Jo before, but all he can think now is that she's so _small_ , even smaller than his Sammy. Her eyes are closed, but she's definitely not sleeping. She's twisting and writhing against the sheets, making high, hurt sounds as Bill tries to hold her still.

"What happened?" John asks, shucking his coat in the corner and striding closer. They wouldn't have called him here unless they thought he could help, which means there has to be something he can do.

"It followed me home from a hunt," Bill says, voice ragged. Ellen circles the bed and drops to the other side, lower lip trembling and hands brushing at the girl's sweat-soaked hair. "I thought I killed it," Bill whispers. "I thought it was dead."

"What is it?" John asks. Bill doesn't seem to hear him, so he grabs his friend by the arm and shakes. " _Bill_. What is it, and how can I help?"

Bill finally drags himself away from Jo to try and explain, but he keeps talking in circles until John finally stops him and says, "Show me your research," so he can read it for himself.

It's not a demon, but it's close enough, and John feels his brows draw tightly down as he reads. The girl will be dead by morning, consumed alive from the inside out, unless there's some way to stop it. The file doesn't say anything about a cure.

"There's a way," says Bill. Dangerous hope balances on the words, along with a shadow of hopeless desperation. "John there's a way to save her, but it can't be done by her own blood. The spell needs to be cast by someone else."

"What kind of spell?" John asks, because he knows a little something about magic: any spell that distinguishes by blood is dangerous business.

Bill's eyes go blank, a carefully unreadable shield dropping into place as he speaks. "A Ziele binding spell," he says, and for a moment all John can hear is the chorus of ' _oh fuck_ ' echoing in his own head.

"This is soul magic we're talking about," John says, struggling to keep the words even. "That's not some quick fix, Bill, that's… you _get_ what you're asking here, right?" John's not sure he gets it himself, at least not entirely. He's heard about soul magic in passing. He's got an inkling what it means, and not much more, but having a little girl's soul bound up with his seems like a bad goddamn idea.

"I wouldn't be asking if there were any other way," Bill answers, and already the blank mask is faltering. "Winchester," he says. " _John_. Please." The last of the façade crumbles, and in its wake Bill's eyes are wide and shattered and achingly desperate. "She's my little girl," he whispers, and John knows he has to say yes.

"Why me?" he asks, not quite ready to take the leap.

"Because I don't have many friends I trust like you, Winchester," says Bill. John would feel flattered if he weren't busy feeling completely overwhelmed: by the show of faith, and the responsibility, and the knowledge that he's going to walk out of here with a soul that's not quite his own anymore. He might regret this later.

"Let's do it," he says, and in his peripheral vision he sees Ellen close her eyes, relieved tears tracking down her face.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Scrawl**  
\- — - — - — -

  
The ritual knocks John on his ass so hard he's out until noon the next day, and when he finally blinks awake it's to the stabbing light of the sun in his eyes and the sight of Bill Harvelle leaning over him with coffee. The presence of coffee makes him feel forgiving, and he sits up despite the splitting headache that's already pounding its way through his skull.

For a moment he's disoriented enough that he doesn't remember why his head hurts—but he remembers quickly enough when he glances to his left at the bed against the far wall, at the exhausted little girl asleep there.

"Did it work?" he asks, sitting up with grudging muscles until he can toss his legs over the side of the low couch and brace his feet against the floor. He accepts the offered coffee gratefully, fingers closing around the mug and absorbing the heat. He takes a bitter sip and instantly feels better, even before the caffeine has time to hit his system. His head still throbs angrily, but he stands and crosses the room with cautious steps.

Bill follows him at a careful distance, but John's not paying much attention to his quiet friend. He's too busy trying to decipher the pulsing sense of something _different_ in his… his _what_ , exactly? He can't localize it, can't put his fingers on just what feels different.

His head, he finally decides, settling for the closest descriptor he can find.

The sensation feels like breathing someone else's air—feels like sharing something he didn't even know he had—and it leaves an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. The ephemeral sense of overlap gets stronger as he sits on the edge of the bed, moving carefully so as not to wake Jo, and he's struck again by how tiny she looks. Her hair is a mess spilled across the too-large pillow, her limbs askew in fitful exhaustion. John can imagine Ellen trying to reposition the girl—trying to set her to sleeping more comfortably, only to be thwarted when Jo tossed in her sleep and found a new off-kilter arrangement for her miniscule frame.

When he reaches out to brush sweat-soaked bangs from her forehead, John feels an even stronger jolt—an even more vivid sense of the fast, fluttering scrawl of the girl's soul beneath his fingers. He jerks his hand away, surprised at the unfamiliar sensation, and finds Bill watching him with wide, wary eyes.

"It worked, then," John says. It's not quite a question, but it's not really an assertion either. It's a hopeful observation halfway between, and he looks to his friend for confirmation.

Bill nods, and he sets a hand on John's shoulder and squeezes. "Thank you," he says, and John realizes there are unshed tears in the man's eyes.

He can't find his voice, so he just nods instead. When he stands, his legs are mostly steady beneath him. He's a mess of conflicting instincts, part of him desperate to sit right back down and wait for Jo to open her eyes, the rest desperate to get back to the drab motel where Dean will be pouring Sam cereal for lunch.

He only hesitates a moment before turning for the door, and Bill follows him.

They pass Ellen in the hall, and she gives John's wrist a squeeze on her way back to the room—back to wait out her vigil until her daughter's eyes finally open.

"I have to get back to my boys," John says, and Bill nods in understanding. The sun beats bright and stubborn through the windows, giving the empty bar a surreal glow. "What happens now?" John asks, digging in his pocket for his car keys.

"I don't know," Bill admits. "I didn't really have time to research all the possible side effects. It's permanent, of course. There's no force that can break the tie, once it's tethered." And John knows he's well and truly tethered. He can feel it beneath his skin—an edge of soul-stuff that isn't his. It thrums, oddly familiar, in time with his own heartbeat, fading slightly with every step of distance between himself and the girl asleep in back. "You'll call me though, right?" says Bill. "If anything feels wrong, or if something changes, or—"

"Yes," says John. "You know I will."

The silence that settles between them could be awkward, but there's too much unspoken sentiment clogging up the air. John can practically feel the gratitude soaking into his skin, and it's making him feel downright fidgety. He only did exactly what he had to.

"John," Bill says softly, and there are even more thank-yous in his eyes. More than the human voice can convey, and John thinks again about how he'd feel if it had been one of his boys in Jo's place. It's too big a terror to fathom.

So he smiles and says, "I know," and finally steps outside.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Linger**  
\- — - — - — -

  
John Winchester is a man with plenty of regrets.

It used to be that he'd wallow in them for days at a time. He'd go out on a hunt, come home wrecked and exhausted, and he'd go for the closest bottle of liquor to try and make the harsh, judgmental throbbing of his heart ease off. Some days were better—there were nights he'd come home, and his boys would still be awake. Those were nights he could hug them and hold them close—watch them play quietly in the living room—and remember all the reasons he can't afford to let go.

But most nights the apartment would be quiet and dark—Sam in bed early and Dean close behind him. And those nights there would be nothing to distract John from his thoughts—no light to counteract the heavy gloom darkening his heart.

Those were always the nights Mary's memory held him tight and kept him aching. She would linger in his thoughts, beautiful and untouchable, and he would fall into the memories like a man lost in desperation. Never mind that it hurt. Never mind that it always left him drinking into the night, sleepless and lonely and heartbroken like new.

But John doesn't do that anymore.

He wants to, some nights—hell, _most_ nights, if he's going to be honest with himself. He wants to fall into memory and let it hurt the way it should: open old wounds that have never had a chance to heal properly, and then wallow in them until dawn.

But he's not alone in his head anymore.

It's nothing like mind-reading, of course. Jo can't see the contours of his thoughts or the images in his mind, any more than he can pick those things up from her.

But he's had the fabric of her soul sewn into his own for going on three years now. And whenever he finds himself sinking into despair, he feels an answering pulse of sadness—young and innocent and scared.

And John may be a monster in a lot of ways, but he can't knowingly put all that on the heart and shoulders of a little girl.

He can't always stop himself entirely, but John does his best. When his control starts to slip, he tries to focus on the happy memories: Mary's smile at Dean's first words, or that horrible green sweater she used to make him wear, or the burnt scrambled eggs she made back when they were both still useless in the kitchen. The empty sadness is still there with him—still throbs in his chest like a loneliness he can never lose. But there's no longer an answering hum of sadness and fear from Jo.

Just a reassuring pulse of warmth that John would almost swear she sends him on purpose.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Trust**  
\- — - — - — -

  
Jo is twelve when her dad first explains about John Winchester.

She already knows who the man is—she knows he's a hunter from the stash of guns she glimpsed in his trunk once—and she knows he and Daddy are friends because when John's in town the two men stay up late talking on the back porch, drinking warm beer and muttering in quiet conversation. Her bedroom window on the floor above lets her follow the rise and fall of their murmured words, but she can never make out specifics.

John Winchester always smiles when he sees her, and she's not sure why it makes her feel so warm and happy and safe. Not until the day she and Mama wave goodbye to his taillights and Jo asks, "How come he feels different from other people?"

There's no one else but family that's ever been able to make Jo feel truly safe—not since the monster followed her daddy home—and even family doesn't feel quite the same as this.

When John Winchester is visiting, Jo feels like she has a second heartbeat.

"That's a complicated question, Joanna Beth," her mom tells her, but it doesn't feel like a lecture. "Your dad's in the shed out back, why don't you go ask him?"

So she takes her question to Dad, and wonders why it makes him smile so sadly.

He lifts her in the air and sets her to perch on the steady surface of his work bench. Jo doesn't mind, even though she could have hoisted herself up without any help. She's tall enough now. But she doesn't mind, and she kicks her heels back and forth in the air, thunking them unpredictably against the wooden cupboards beneath her as she waits.

"John's a good man," Bill finally says, and Jo rolls her eyes and stops kicking the cupboard.

"I _know_ ," she says. It doesn't occur to her until after it's out of her mouth that she has no idea why it seems so obvious.

"You probably don't remember," says Bill, "but he saved your life once. He cast a spell your mom and I couldn't, and it saved you."

"From the monster," Jo whispers. She remembers a little.

"Yeah," says her dad, and he looks sad all over again.

Jo found a folder in his workshop once—a file full of papers and photos. Her name was on the papers, and the photos looked like the thing Jo still sometimes sees in her worst nightmares. There was a name on the folder, but Jo never read it. She didn't want her nightmares to have a name.

"But why is John _different_?" she asks now, because so far her dad hasn't actually answered her question.

"Because you share something with him," says Bill. "Something important."

"So important you can't tell me what it _is_?" she whines.

"Your soul," says her dad.

Jo doesn't have any idea what to say to that.

"I trust John Winchester with my life, Jo," he says, hands settling warm and heavy on her shoulders. "And I knew I had to trust him with yours."

"With my… soul," she echoes.

"He's a good man," Bill repeats, giving her arms a gentle squeeze.

"I know," Jo reminds him. And because he still looks sad, she leans forward and hugs him.

Besides. She'd rather have a John Winchester than a soul of her own any day.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Scramble**  
\- — - — - — -

  
Jo gets her driver's permit on her fifteenth birthday, and she spends the entire bus ride home giddy with the news. Her mom and dad don't even know she's taken the written exam—it's a surprise. But they're going to be proud, and her dad's going to hug her tight and spin her in the air, and maybe he'll even take her out tonight and let her get behind the wheel.

Dad's been talking for months about how he's going to teach her to drive a stick shift: how she's going to learn on his truck, and that's that, and Jo feels the excitement hum high in her chest.

She wants to make her daddy proud.

He's supposed to be back today—been gone for a week on mysterious 'business'. She knows it's another hunt from the way her mom's been all dark and tense since he left, but Jo also knows he'll be back right on schedule. He always is.

She doesn't know what to think when she reaches the Roadhouse and can't find the truck. It's early though. Barely noon on a Saturday. Maybe he's stuck in traffic.

The door creaks noisily when Jo steps inside, into the main room of the bar, and she immediately knows something's not right. Her mom is at a table in the corner with a man Jo recognizes only vaguely—her memory grudgingly supplies the name Gordon Walker. She can't hear what they're saying, even as she approaches with slow, careful steps. Their voices are too low. But Ellen's face is a blank, scary mask that Jo has only seen once or twice in her life, and Gordon's mouth is shaping syllables that Jo has no trouble reading: ' _I'm sorry_.'

"What's going on?" Jo asks. She already doesn't want an answer.

"It's about your daddy," Ellen says, and it's a good thing Jo is already standing by the table, because she barely grabs hold of a chair before her legs give out under her.

Gordon leaves without a word, and it's her mom's voice telling Jo news so bad the world might as well be ending. Her heart denies it instantly—her dad _can't_ be dead, no way. Bill Harvelle always comes home. He's invincible. Nothing can kill him.

But Jo feels a prickling numbness settle into her fingers and her face, feels it spread through her body, and realizes she's too old for that particular fairy tale.

"How did it happen?" she asks, and her voice feels disconnected and wrong. Like the question is coming from somewhere else entirely. She's pretty sure she's supposed to be feeling something right now. But all she feels is empty—tingly—and a little bit cold.

"I don't know," says Ellen. Jo can tell she's lying.

They put out the 'CLOSED' sign and turn away business that day, and Jo pretends to go to bed early, even though there's no way she's sleeping. Not tonight, maybe never again. The pounding in her ears is too loud, and anyway what's the point?

She hears the phone ring through the door of her bedroom, and when she steps stealthily into the hall she hears her mother's voice answering in a thin mask of shaky bravado and phony calm.

"Winchester," Ellen says. "God, it's good to hear your voice." Jo knows she should feel something in response to that name, but the surge of recognition fades too quickly behind the stubborn wall of numbness stuffing her head.

"You heard, I take it," says Ellen, and Jo is surprised at the raw edge of hurt she can hear in her mother's voice—surprised because aching emptiness is all there is. Jo is a robot with all its wires scrambled, like the signal that's supposed to tell her how to feel is getting intercepted and unraveled along the way. But her mom's voice is ragged, raw emotion. Even through her own personal haze, Jo can hear it.

"Oh," Ellen says, and now she sounds surprised. "I just thought… no. Sorry. John, it's Bill."

Jo goes back into her room and closes the door. She's already heard this part.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Tell**  
\- — - — - — -

  
John may not be great at staying in touch, but he keeps tabs on the Harvelles. When he hears that Bill is going on a hunt with Gordon Walker, he calls his friend to tell him he's an idiot.

"I can't take this one on alone, John," Bill insists, voice smooth and familiar. "I'd be an idiot to try and handle it myself, and Gordon's close by."

"Gordon is _trouble_ ," John points out. It's mostly just a hunch, but John's learned to trust his instincts. He's met the man all of three times, all of them in passing, but combine those brief interactions with the things he's heard and John is confident in his assessment.

Gordon Walker is bad news.

"It'll be fine," Bill reassures him. "It's just one hunt. Not like I'm taking him on as a partner or anything. Just this one job and then we'll go our separate ways."

John doesn't like it, but it's not really his business. Besides, bad news or not, he knows Gordon is competent. It's just one hunt, and then everything will be back to the status quo.

The pit in his stomach over the next few days isn't anything new. It's not even his own nervousness for the most part. He's figured out how to tell the difference by now, how to distinguish between what he's actually feeling and what he's picking up from a teenage girl three states away: sometimes more, sometimes less. The signal strength seems to depend on proximity as much as it does the intensity of the underlying emotions, but the point is that he knows the anxious uncertainty in his gut isn't his own. It's just the natural response of a fifteen-year-old girl who won't rest easy until her daddy's home in one piece.

John calls his boys that night—talks to both of them instead of just letting Sam off the hook when Dean says the kid is busy writing a paper. Sam pretends to be annoyed at the interruption, but John doesn't think he's imagining the quiet warmth in his son's tone. Especially once John explains that this particular hunt is over—that he's just got a few loose ends to tie up, and then he'll be home. That maybe he can stay for a couple of weeks this time.

He's loading up his truck late Saturday morning when the soft, familiar lump of uneasiness in his stomach takes a sudden, jolting dive into something sharp and dark and broken. Despair and disbelief, and the feelings are so strong they knock the wind out of him. For a moment he can't breathe.

The sensation fades to nothing almost as quickly as it hit him, but there's nothing reassuring about the sudden staticky quiet that swells to fill the empty space. He checks out at the motel office and points his truck toward the Roadhouse.

He's driven straight into sunset by the time he picks up the phone and calls.

Ellen's voice sounds thick and wrong when she answers, and instead of the customary Roadhouse greeting it's, "Unless this is an emergency, call back another time."

"Ellen, it's me," he says, and then waits through long minutes of silence.

"Winchester," Ellen finally breathes. "God, it's good to hear your voice." John's not sure how she can sound relieved and shattered in the same breath, but she inhales hard and says, "You heard, I take it?"

"Haven't heard a damn thing," he says, his heart beating loud and cruel in his ears. "Tell me what happened."

"Oh," says Ellen, and John can picture the surprised expression on her face. "I just thought… no. Sorry. John, it's Bill."

He barely listens as she fills him in. The hunt went wrong. He doesn't need to know anything else.

The sun has painted the sky sunrise pink by the time he pulls to a stop in the dusty parking lot in front of the Roadhouse. He doesn't bother knocking. The front door is unlocked, and he walks right in. He finds Jo standing by the bar with a broom in her hand, and the girl's shoulders are heavy with vacant stillness as she stares off into space and doesn't even register his presence.

"Hey," he says, and she startles to attention. Her eyes blink wide and surprised as she realizes she's not alone.

"John," she says, but her eyes don't quite focus on him.

He takes in the sight of her like he's checking for injuries. Her eyes are dry, oddly disconnected, and that fits the static buzz of non-emotion he's still picking up from her—even this close, the connection at its strongest, all he can feel is the blank wall of shock cutting her off from despair. Her hands are clenched too tightly around the broom handle, knuckles white.

When John takes a step closer he realizes she's almost a foot taller than the last time he saw her in person. Has he really been gone that long?

"Where's your mom?" he asks, eyes darting around the room.

"Out," says Jo. "She's. She's making arrangements." Funeral arrangements, John translates. His throat tightens at the thought.

He's hit by a sudden wave of uncertainty as he realizes he's got no idea what to do now. He's here: that much is important. But Jo is standing stiff and unsteady, and if one of his boys looked like that John would already be there wrapping them up in a protective hug. Trying to make it right, when there's nothing in the world that can. But for all the awkward closeness that comes with having a teenage girl's soul sewn up in his, John's not sure a hug would be welcome right now. Maybe the best thing he can do is keep his distance.

He steps closer anyway, one foot cautiously in front of the other until he can reach the broom handle and coax it out of her hands, propping it against a chair.

"How are you holding up, sweetheart?" he asks. Jo shakes her head and stares at him like he's crazy. Or like she doesn't understand. Like this is all some big, ugly mystery and she's just trying to make the pieces fit.

Instead of answering him, she reaches out and grabs him by the sleeve. Her face is bright and intense as she asks, "You're staying, right? Please tell me you're staying. People will be coming, and… and there are things to do, and I can't… Please stay." There's desperation in her eyes, a manic energy that makes him wonder if coming here was a bad idea after all.

But it hits him quickly enough that she's reading him the same way he's been reading her—her gunshot of anguish and the numbness she's been clouded in since—and whatever she's picking up from him, it must be better than what she's feeling for herself, because she's clinging to his arm like he's the only strength she has.

"Yeah," he says, and drags her into a tight hug. "Yeah, sweetheart, I'm staying. I'm right here."

She relaxes into him immediately, face tucked against his shoulder and heartbeat fast and unsteady. Her voice is muffled, barely recognizable when she whispers, "Good."

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Indurate**  
\- — - — - — -

  
John stays an extra couple days after the funeral. He tells himself it's because he can be useful to Ellen, but the reality is a different story. Bill Harvelle was a good friend, and John can feel the man's loss like a hollow ache in his chest. It's easier to keep it together—to not think about it—if he focuses on keeping a strong face for Jo and Ellen. It's easier to stay strong if he tells himself it's for them.

It's not until three days out that he realizes the stubborn, hollow ache might not be entirely his own.

But by then he can't stay any longer. He hasn't seen his boys in nearly a month, and he knows Dean is starting to get antsy. His eldest is liable to pack up and drive to the Roadhouse if John doesn't get home soon, and that won't do. Sam's got the quarter to finish out at his current high school, and John doesn't want him doing it alone. Not with all the doom and portents he's been tracking since the night of the fire.

He's inside packing his things when Ellen approaches him. Her arms are tightly crossed, almost hugging herself as if the room is cold. Her eyes are dry and red, deep and sad and painful to look at. John forces himself to meet them anyway.

"Will you talk to her before you go?" Ellen asks in a rough voice. "She's all shutdown on me. I can't get through. But she." Ellen swallows hard and blinks stubbornly, and finally continues, "She listens to you. She never seems as far gone when you're around."

"Sure," John says. "I'll talk to her. She in her room?"

Ellen shakes her head—and that's not a smile twisting her lips, but it's something close. "She's sitting on your truck. I think she had a feeling you might be heading out."

The sky is gloomy gray and threatening to rain when John finally emerges into the gravel parking lot with keys in hand. His truck sits tucked in a near corner, between a scrubby bush and the side of the bar, and there's Jo, perched on the hood with her feet dangling over the bumper and her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

"You leaving?" she asks, and the measured numbness in her voice is painful.

"Not without saying goodbye," says John, opening the cab to throw his duffel across onto the passenger seat. "Wanted to talk to you before I hit the road."

She watches him but doesn't come down, so John closes the door again and circles to stand beside her, leaning his elbows on the sleek metal hood and tilting his head back to meet her eyes. He ponders tactics momentarily. There's probably a gentle way to broach the subject—a smooth transition into what he has to say. But hell if John can see it, and his point is more important than a smooth delivery.

"I know it hurts," he finally says. "But you can't just turn your heart off and hope it makes the pain go away."

Jo's lower lip trembles for barely a second before she presses her mouth into a thin, angry line. She doesn't speak, but she's watching him. Her eyes flash warning and danger and fear.

"Just give it time," he says, and his voice feels rough in his throat. "You don't have to be hard in order to be strong. Trust me, I tried that." God, he had tried. He thinks about his boys, and wonders how long he would've survived if he hadn't had them to force his hand and keep him grounded.

There's a wary thawing of the girl's tight control, and John can feel it like a trickle of wounded sensation feeding into his own thoughts.

"Does it get better?" she asks, her voice wobbly and weak.

He thinks about telling her a reassuring lie, but instead he says, "No. But you get used to it."

She nods and there's another leak in the dam, slow crumbling as it threatens to come down. He knows she won't let it fall completely as long as he's here, but he's equally sure that his message got through. She'll let it out, and she'll be okay. John needs her to be okay.

She slides to her feet without being asked, and when John turns to say goodbye she beats him to the punch—pops right up on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck in a tight, desperate hug.

"Thank you," she whispers, and he blinks back tears as he hugs her back.

"You take care of your mom," is all he can think to say. "And you call me if you need anything." He pulls back to look her in the eye and says, " _Anything_. I mean it."

"Okay," says Jo.

When he drives away, he keeps his eyes on the rearview mirror, watching her wave goodbye.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Regret**  
\- — - — - — -

  
She's studying for a chemistry test when she feels a jolt of fearful despair, so sudden that she spills a glass of orange juice all over her notes. She's in the kitchen instead of her room, which means her mom is there to stare at her in surprise and then rush over with a towel in hand, trying to mitigate the spreading disaster.

"You all right, honey?" Ellen asks, handing off the towel and going for another one. Jo nods, but she's too busy trying to read the dark cloud of emotions at the back of her skull to bother giving more of an answer than that.

She knew in the first instant where the feelings were coming from, of course, but she needs to figure out what they mean. She needs to know if John Winchester is hurt, or worse, dying.

The closer she focuses, the more sure she becomes that the jarring emotion has nothing to do with physical injury. That's something she's felt plenty of times before, weaker or stronger depending on distance and severity, and she's confident it's not what she's feeling now. The sharp, unexpected stab of fear and despair has already smoothed out, and a growing swell of anger is swirling into the mix. Jo doesn't like it—last she heard, John and his boys were somewhere in Oregon. No _way_ should she be picking up feedback so clearly from this distance, which means the feelings must be tearing him apart.

It takes her a long stretch of minutes to realize Ellen is still talking to her—her mom is kneeling in front of her, hands tight around Jo's upper arms, and Jo blinks and forces herself to focus mid-sentence.

"—scaring me here, Jo, talk to me."

"Sorry," says Jo, interrupting a mantra that's probably been on repeat long enough to start sending her mom into a true panic. "Didn't mean to space out."

"Honey, what happened?"

"It's John," she says without hesitation. "Something bad happened. _Is_ happening."

"He hurt?" Ellen asks, face already settling from brewing panic into a calmer, focused look. It wouldn't be the first time the Harvelles have dropped everything to go on a rescue mission.

"No," says Jo. "I don't think so. It feels different."

"Okay," says Ellen, and now, finally, relief spreads across her face.

"I should call him," says Jo, even though the roiling mess of borrowed sensation says that whatever's going on, he's still in the middle of it.

"You should drink some water first," says Ellen, fetching a glass from the sink. "You're pale as a ghost, sweetie. You just drink this and keep studying. You can call him later."

Jo _tries_ to study. But even though the test is tomorrow, and even though she wants to end the quarter with a strong A, she's not surprised her thoughts can't focus on anything but the unhappy knot of anger and fear in her throat.

When she finally picks up the phone and dials, she has no idea if he's going to pick up. The line rings once, twice, three's the charm and she finally hears a soft click.

"Hello?" comes John's gruff, familiar voice. He sounds strangely hesitant, and Jo swallows past the knot in her throat.

"Hey," she says. "It's me."

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" he asks, instantly alert with worry.

"Fine," she's quick to reassure. "Things are fine over here." She hesitates but finally adds, "What about you?" They don't really do social calls—not often enough, at any rate, for him to play dumb about her purpose now.

"They could be better," he admits. His tone is wry and fragile, and it's a little bit terrifying. Jo has never heard him sound like this before.

"John, what happened?" she asks. Because she doesn't know what could have made him react the way she felt before—the way she still feels now, to a quieter degree—and the only things that come to mind have to do with his boys. None of them are good.

"Had a falling out with Sam," John says simply. "He left." The regret behind the words is so heavy that Jo can feel it weighing her down.

"Left for where?" she asks.

"Stanford," says John, and Jo wonders how he can sound so proud and terrified and furious all at once. "He's going to college."

"Oh," says Jo dumbly, and tries to imagine Sam Winchester moving into normal dorms, on a normal college campus, as a normal student. The image doesn't conjure easily. "You gonna be okay?" she asks, because she can't think of anything else to say.

"Sure," he says with false brightness. "Always am." It's a lie, and they both know it. "Say hi to your mom for me," John mumbles into the phone.

They both hang up without goodbyes. It's not like they've ever really needed them.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Lurk**  
\- — - — - — -

  
She's starting to feel the night's stubborn cold chilling her through her sleeves—it's supposedly spring, but the air doesn't feel like it once the sun goes down—when she finally raises her eyes and says, "You gonna stand there in the shadows all night, or are you going to come say hello?"

"Sorry," her uninvited visitor murmurs. With a sheepish smile, John Winchester steps into the limited circle of light cast from the porch. "You didn't really look like you wanted company." He's right, of course. She's out here because she _doesn't_ want company. But those rules have never applied to him.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Jo asks, hugging her knees to her chest and ignoring the way the wooden step creaks beneath her.

"Would you believe I was in the area?" he asks, voice gruff as he sits down beside her. He's a little too close, but he gives her as much space as he can on the narrow plank of wood.

"Maybe," she says. "If you weren't giving off so many vibes that say otherwise." He's here for her, and the thought is almost enough to make her smile through her grim mood.

"You think you read me so well, do you, kid? " he says, jostling her shoulder with his own.

"Not like you make it difficult," she shrugs. "Besides, from this close I can practically tell when you get a bug bite."

"Really." He doesn't sound convinced.

"Well," she concedes. "Maybe if it were a really nasty bug bite and you were _really_ surprised about it."

"From this close I can usually tell you've been fighting with your mom," he counters, and she purses her lips and glares at him. "Want to tell me what you were fighting about?" His voice is low and careful, like he knows it's not his business but hopes she'll tell him anyway.

"She wants me to apply to colleges next fall," Jo says, and it surprises her how quickly the words come.

"And you don't want to?"

Jo considers the question for a long moment, toe of her boot fidgeting in the dirt and her gaze on the sky. When she finally speaks, it's to say, "I don't know what I want. But I sure as hell don't like being ordered around, and it's not like I've ever been very good at doing things the normal way."

"You and me both," John says with a warm smile.

Besides, Jo considers further, college would be a step out of this world, and she's not sure she can handle that—not when it's as close as she'll ever get to the memory of her father. Silence settles between them while she thinks, quiet and comfortable, and the only sounds for long moments are crickets and the creak of John's leather jacket.

"So," she says, finally. "Really. Why are you here?"

"I was _almost_ in the area," says John. "And I wanted to wish you a happy birthday."

Jo actually smiles at that, and she's a little embarrassed at how quickly her face and heart warm with the words.

"Did you get me a present?" she asks, trying to hide her flustered response behind a deliberate, cheeky grin, and praying like hell he's not paying attention to the echo of her mood right now. Bad enough he can feel it when she's fighting. The last thing the man needs to deal with is the confusing split of emotions in her chest: half of her heart leans toward childish glee at the simple, stupid fact that he remembers her birthday, but the other half can't quite pull free from the mire that always accompanies this particular anniversary.

"Of course I got you a present," he says, and the warm look in his eyes nudges the happier feelings to the forefront. "Eighteen. That's a big deal." He reaches into his pocket, and when he pulls his hand out he's holding a small paper bag, brown and folded in on itself a couple times. "It's nothing special," he hedges as he hands it over. "And it might not fit you. And it's probably not very pretty."

"Would you stop?" she chuckles softly, working the folds of paper apart and sticking her hand into the bag, searching with her fingers until they close around a small piece of metal. It's smooth and round, heavy in her hand as she takes it out—thick and polished and a little bulky, with runes carved into the band both inside and out.

"It's for protection," John quickly explains as she stares at the ring. "Some stories say it keeps bad spirits away, but Bobby translated the symbols and we know for a fact that it works as a barrier against demonic possessions. I'm pretty sure it guards against other things, too."

"Wow," says Jo. "But shouldn't… I mean, isn't this the sort of thing _you_ should be wearing?"

"Doesn't fit," John says, quiet laughter in his eyes. "Anyway, I'd rather know _you're_ wearing it. Not like I can always be here to protect you."

"You don't need to protect me," she points out, but she can't bring herself to be annoyed at the presumption.

"Please wear it? If it doesn't fit your hand, it should work almost as well on a chain around your neck."

It _does_ fit her, but barely: slides right off of every finger she tries until she puts it on her left thumb. It looks odd there—dark gray and clunky—but she smiles as she looks at it.

"Thank you," she says, and John smiles in response.

"Jo," he says, looking suddenly hesitant. "You should go to college. There's more to life than hunting."

"Says who?" she asks, mostly teasing. But his eyes darken at the question, and she feels his shadow-edged throb of hurt.

"Says a headstrong young man I know." And even though John's eyes look a little bit red now, he adds, "You're a smart girl, Jo. You can make something more out of your life. Just think about it, okay?"

"I can't just go off to college and pretend I don't know what's out there."

"And you shouldn't," says John. "You need to be careful. You need to be _safe_. That's the most important thing. But if you can get a degree and a life while you're at it…"

"Okay," says Jo. John stiffens with surprise when she hugs him, but eventually he returns the gesture. "Okay," she repeats. "I'll think about it."

"Good," he says, and gives her shoulders a squeeze. She says goodnight when he leaves, and thank you, and good luck on his next hunt. She says the usual goodbyes, and just like always wonders when she'll see him again.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Truckle**  
\- — - — - — -

  
During her senior year of high school, Jo takes a shot at dating. It seems like a worthwhile experiment, and she goes out with a guy named Andrew. He's cute, and he's smart, and he asks her out between third and fourth period on a Friday.

Third period is shop, so she's usually in a good mood. It's the perfect time to ask.

"I'd love to," she says with a smile, and he buys her dinner at D'Amucci's Pizzeria. They talk about stupid things like teachers and midterms and action movies, and maybe it's a little pointless, but Jo has fun. She shores up her resolve, and when he drops her off at home she kisses him goodnight.

For a moment she thinks maybe she really could like him.

They're good like that for two weeks, and they date for another month and a half before Jo finally calls it off.

"I just need to be more focused on school right now," she lies. "Physics is kicking my butt, and if I want any financial help for college my grades need to be a lot better." She feels bad lying to his face—the truth is, her grades are phenomenal and all her scholarship applications are already in—but the shattered look on his face tells her the truth would be unforgivably cruel.

"It's me, isn't it," he says, and he's blinking so rapidly that she knows he's fighting back tears.

"Of course it's not," she insists.

"It is." He nods like he's got it figured out. "I've done something wrong." His lower lip trembles almost imperceptibly, and Jo feels like a heel for breaking his heart. She feels even worse when Andrew takes her hand and says, "Whatever it is, I can fix it!"

"You haven't done anything wrong," she says, and it's not exactly a lie. It's not something specific he's done so much as everything else. The problem is, it should be a good thing having a boyfriend so intent on making her happy. But there's something in the desperation of his attentions—something in the way he dotes and truckles and offers to carry her books the five feet between one classroom and the next—that makes her want to pack up and run the other direction.

It doesn't help that every time she tries to picture him holding a shotgun or sharpening a knife she wants to burst out laughing. She can barely imagine the look on his face if she ever tried to tell him that there's really such thing as monsters.

"I just don't have time for a relationship right now," she fibs, and then walks away because it's the only way to end the conversation.

Tommy Gruber asks her out during lunch the very next day, and Jo turns him down.

Whatever she's looking for, she's pretty sure she won't find it here.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Jostle**  
\- — - — - — -

  
It's a damp, cloudy day, wind bringing the rain down in patches and driving the populace indoors, and John feels claustrophobic where he stands in line. The coffee shop is packed beyond capacity, stuffy and uncomfortably full, and if he and Dean didn't need the free wi-fi for research he would suggest they ditch the place entirely.

He picks up his two large coffees and starts for the table Dean has managed to stake out in the back. Somebody jostles him on the way by, a clumsy elbow to the side, and John almost spills down his sleeve. Fortunately, hunter reflexes are good for more than just taking out werewolves and settling angry spirits.

"Here," he says, handing one of the coffees over with a steady hand. "Careful not to spill on the ledgers." He sits in the available chair and contemplates the tall stack of papers, tomes and file folders.

"Right," Dean snorts as he takes a sip of the steaming beverage. "Thanks for the warning. Don't know what I would've done without it." John smirks and inclines his head, acknowledging that the admonition was out of place and unnecessary.

They work in silence for the next forty minutes, companionable and easy. They're a solid team, him and his boy, quick and intuitive and so streamlined that sometimes John almost forgets that the system is missing a vital cog. Dean follows orders without question—most of the time, anyway, and when he does question there's damn good reason for it. Dean is always half a step behind him, right where John needs him to be, covering his back and following his cues, and fast turning into one of the best damn hunters John has ever known.

Dean wants to take on a solo hunt, one of his own, but John's not thinking about that yet.

With a resigned huff, John gives up on the dusty volume marked 1977-1979 and moves on to 1980, barely startling when his phone suddenly vibrates against the table. It rattles along the smoothly pock-marked wood, rumbling low and audible, and John's too engrossed in his work to pay it much mind—whoever it is will leave a message if it's important, and he can always call back later—but Dean interrupts his focus.

"You should answer," Dean says, reaching across the table to pick up the phone and drop it in the hand John instinctively raises to take it. "It's Jo."

"Oh," says John, and he flips the phone open and raises it to his ear. "Talk to me," he says, already standing from his seat.

"Hey," says Jo. Her voice rings tinny in his ear thanks to shitty reception, but he can hear warmth and amusement just the same. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Nothing that can't wait a few minutes," he reassures her, shoving through the throng of shop patrons towards the front entrance. It's still gray and gross when he sets foot outside, but there's quiet and the illusion of privacy as he says, "What's up, kiddo? Everything okay?"

"Yeah," she says. He can hear the wide smile in her tone. "Yeah, everything's great. I just thought I should give you the news myself."

"Good news, I hope," he says. He can already tell that it is.

"I got accepted to Creighton University," she says in an excited rush. "Full academic scholarship and everything. I'm going to college."

"Jo, that's great," he says, and his voice feels thick with relief and pride. "I knew you could do it."

"Are you proud of me?" she asks, mostly teasing but a little bit hopeful.

"You bet I am," says John. "How did your mom take the news?"

"Oh, you know," says Jo. "Had to crack out the smelling salts to revive her after I opened the letter, but I think she's happy." John suspects that's an understatement on par with ' _the sky is pretty big_ ,' and a gruff laugh shakes his chest.

"Well, congratulations," he says. "And you be sure to let me know if you need anything." She won't ask anything of him, but that doesn't mean he can't offer. He's had to be sneaky about helping Sam—last thing he needs is for the boy to turn down money on account of wounded pride—but if Jo needs him, maybe the girl will have the sense to come right out and say so.

Dean is waiting with worried eyes when John finally comes back inside, fidgeting with his pen and tapping a rhythm against the edge of the table. John drops back into his chair and offers a reassuring smile.

"No bad news," he assures. The uneasiness fades from Dean's features, and John doesn't elaborate. They both settle silently back to their respective tasks.

The coffee is lukewarm when he takes a sip, but John doesn't mind.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Vaticinate**  
\- — - — - — -

  
During fall break her freshman year, Jo lets her brand new college roommate talk her into a road trip to St. Louis. The girl's got family there, and apparently she doesn't want to make the drive alone. Jo almost turns her down, but eventually decides it kind of sounds like fun. Besides, she doesn't want to seem ungrateful for the invite. For all that she and Amanda don't have much in common, Jo's touched by the obvious gesture.

Ellen sounds disappointed when Jo calls to tell her, but she claims to understand. Says it wouldn't be college without a road trip or two.

The drive is quiet but pleasant—mostly sunny, with the occasional scattering of red and orange leaves to garnish the side of the road. Jo and Amanda tolerate each other's music, make small talk about the scenery and their classes, and generally pass the time without too much in the way of awkward silence.

Their route takes them down through Kansas on I-29, and when they stop for gas and coffee just outside Kansas City, Jo feels oddly like she's being watched.

"I'll get the coffee," she says as Amanda unscrews the gas cap on her dusty little Ford Escort. There's a Starbucks across the street, and Jo makes her way there at a measured pace, her neck prickling at more than just the windy autumn heat on the back of her neck.

"Why are you watching me?" she asks inside, as she sets two newly purchased coffees on the counter and adds sugar to both. She doesn't even know whom she's addressing until a warm, smiling black woman steps forward into her peripheral vision—Jo tries to hang on to the sense of discomfiture from a moment before, but there's something about the woman that inspires immediate trust.

"I'm sorry, dear," the woman says. "I forget my manners sometimes. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Who are you?" Jo demands, turning to direct her full attention at the woman. She crosses her arms and struggles to keep an expression of cold suspicion on her face. It's harder than it should be.

"My name is Missouri," says the woman. "I'm a friend."

"No offense," says Jo. "But I don't know you. And I still want to know why you've been watching me."

"Oh, honey." The woman's face softens into a sadder, too familiar smile. "That's what I do. I see things. I watch. I try to decide just how much to tell people—how much they need to know and how much they _want_ to know."

"You're a seer," Jo realizes, exhaling in surprise. "A psychic."

The woman inclines her head, but refrains from comment.

"You see something for _me_ ," Jo presses. "My future?"

"Of course not," says Missouri with a soft laugh. "I never see the future. That's not my gift. But the present? That I see plenty."

"Then what?" Jo asks. She steps forward and drops her voice. "You came over here for a reason. Tell me."

"You're in a tangle, Jo," says Missouri, and somehow Jo isn't surprised to hear her own name despite never having introduced herself. "You're standing right on the precipice of something bigger than you know."

"What does that even mean?" Jo asks, exasperated.

"The Winchesters," Missouri says, and Jo's blood chills. "There are dark forces circling that family. You would probably save yourself a lot of trouble if you kept your distance from them."

"I could never do that," Jo whispers. To her surprise, Missouri reaches out and clasps her left hand tightly.

"I know you couldn't. And it may even be that you can help them."

"How?" asks Jo. But Missouri shakes her head.

"I told you, the future's not mine to foretell. I only know what already is." Jo wants to protest—to insist that there _must_ be something more that this woman can tell her—but her intended words die away as Missouri, still holding on, turns Jo's hand over in her grasp to look at the thick, metal band encircling her thumb.

"That's powerful protection," Missouri says approvingly. "But it's even more powerful when you wear it like that."

"Like what?" Jo asks, at a complete loss. How else is she supposed to wear a ring besides on the only finger it fits?

"Like it _means_ something," says Missouri, and now her eyes are sparkling. "Like love."

Jo blushes and doesn't really know why, but she's quick to pull her hand back and drop it at her side.

"Now don't you lose that," says Missouri. As if Jo could.

The bell over the front door jingles, and Jo glances up to see Amanda standing silhouetted in the afternoon sun. The look on her face says she's been done pumping gas for awhile and has moved on to wondering and worrying about Jo's delay over a simple coffee mission. It's fortunate that Amanda came to find her, really. Jo probably would've forgotten to bring the coffee when she finally fled the shop.

"Everything okay?" Amanda asks, stepping up beside her.

Jo nods, and realizes suddenly that she's alone at the counter. "Yeah," she says, putting the lids back on both cups and handing one over. "Yes. Fine. There… was a mixup at the cash register."

Amanda seems to buy that explanation, and they leave without further delay. When Jo stops at the door and turns to scan the coffee shop patrons, Missouri is nowhere in sight.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Claim**  
\- — - — - — -

  
His name is Derek Fitzgibbons, and Jo does Bio II labs with him for almost six weeks before she realizes he has a crush on her.

After she catches on, it's impossible not to see it every time he looks her way.

Derek's hair is a thick, raucous red, and his skin is pale, with a ridiculous scattering of freckles that completely overpowers his cheeks and nose. He's adorable, when she considers him in the abstract, and the fact that he's both smart and sweet should really be enough to capture her attention.

For a solid week, she agonizes over the vexing fact that he doesn't.

She's got her phone in hand on a Wednesday night, thinking about calling and asking him out anyway, when it rings before she can dial.

She glances at the screen and flicks it open, smiling as she says, "John, hey."

He's in town on reconnaissance—has a hunt lined up a couple towns over, but the window of opportunity doesn't open up until Friday.

"You gonna buy me a burger while you're here?" she teases, and she feels the warm fondness of his chuckle pulse through her, pure sensation half a second before the sound actually reaches her ears.

"You know I am, sweetheart," he says, and then promises he'll call the second he's done interviewing tomorrow's witness. Jo tells him she won't be back from lecture before eleven, but John just says that's fine. Jo can hear the smile through his words, and she's still grinning when she says goodnight.

The room feels empty again after she ends the call, and she glances at her other hand. She's still holding a post-it note with Derek's number on it, creased and a little bit crumpled between her thumb and forefinger.

She stares at it for a long moment, blinking like she doesn't recognize it, and then glances back at her phone. The screen is still flashing with the ended call.

"Oh," she says dumbly, dawning revelation making her eyes go wide.

She lets the post-it note fall to the ground.

Derek asks her out the very next day, catching up to her halfway back to her dorm. He pulls her onto the grass so that foot traffic can continue unobstructed along the sidewalk, and he only fidgets a little as he asks if he can take her out for dinner sometime.

She gives him the softest letdown she can—all, "Derek, you're a great guy," and, "I really wish I could, but." She tries to maintain eye contact, because it seems like the right thing to do, but when she finishes speaking she realizes she's staring down at her hands—at the thick metal band of the ring John gave her, twisting it back and forth around her thumb.

She forces herself to raise her eyes finally, and the look she finds on Derek's face is pretty far from what she expects. He doesn't look angry, or even all that sad. A little wistful, maybe, but he's smiling at her, which doesn't really compute.

"Someone's got prior claim, huh?" he asks gently. When Jo doesn't answer, his smile twitches wider and he says, "Sorry. I didn't know it was that kind of ring."

"I, um. That is. Yeah," Jo stutters. It seems like a stupid thing to deny now.

"Look, no hard feelings, okay?" he says, tilting his head and watching her closely. "I wasn't trying to be an asshole."

"God, no, it's totally fine," Jo rushes to reassure. "I mean, you couldn't have known." Lord knows this is all new to _her_ , even if it is like watching the pieces of a puzzle suddenly click themselves into place.

"See you for lab tomorrow?" he asks as he edges back toward the sidewalk.

"You bet," says Jo, and manages a genuine smile.

She loiters there for long minutes, distracted. Not so much thinking things through as remembering—seeing through the tinted lens of hindsight and wondering how she could have missed the obvious for so long. The ring circling her left thumb feels heavier than before, even though that's impossible, and Jo stares at it like she's seeing it for the first time.

She startles when her phone rings, but even before she fishes it out of her pocket she knows it's John calling. His voice makes her smile instinctively, and this time she's all too conscious of why.

"Yeah," she says, feeling a surreal sense of rightness settle into her skin. "Yeah, I was just on my way back from class. Do you need directions to my place?"

He doesn't, of course.

Jo puts her phone away and steps back onto the sidewalk, moving with the steady, crowded flow of students as she finally heads for home.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Crave**  
\- — - — - — -

  
He finds a lot of hunts in Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri—close to Jo, he has to admit, at least to himself. He never goes out of his way looking for monsters in the vicinity, but much as he'd like to pretend it's just coincidence, he can't. John Winchester has long since given up believing in coincidences. The reality is he feels better when the girl's in range. The world doesn't seem quite so much like it's out to get him when he can feel her presence, warm and reassuring, like an extra heartbeat in his blood.

He's in Underwood, Iowa when a werewolf's claws cut him deep. He puts a bullet between the thing's eyes, and keeps pressure on his wound—blood pulses from his arm, worrisome, though he's pretty sure the wolf missed his artery.

He gets himself back to the truck and drives without really processing where he's headed.

He doesn't think to call Jo when he reaches Omaha, but she meets him out by his truck anyway. Makes him leave the thing where it is—parked half on the curb and taking up most of a handicapped parking space—as she drags him upright with an arm over her shoulders and steers him toward the building straight ahead.

"You're goddamn lucky I live on the first floor," she growls, and even though there's no fear in her voice, he can feel the low, rapid rhythm of her unspoken panic.

"Sorry t' turn up unannounced," John apologizes, but the words come out thick and slurred.

"Shut up," says Jo, unlocking and opening the door with one hand and maneuvering him through the midnight-empty hallway to a door at the end of the corridor. John catches a blurry glimpse of photos and a small whiteboard, and then the door is swinging aside and they're stumbling through and into the room. He sees matching furniture—matching beds, as Jo steers him towards the one on the right, and he tries to keep his eyes open as she lowers him unsteadily onto the mattress.

Next thing he sees is Jo hovering close, lit by the eerie gray glow of pre-dawn light sneaking through the window. Her face is a conflicting display of emotions: anger, fear, disapproval, but mostly warm relief.

"Welcome back," she says, squeezing his hand, which is the first John realizes she's holding it. He blinks at her, willing her face into sharper focus, as his brain finally manages to orient with his surroundings. Dorm room, cluttered but tidy—he's lying on top of the covers on one of the matching beds, with Jo perched beside him, leaning close.

Leaning _too_ close, and John's heartbeat picks up speed in his chest. Jo's proximity is making him feel warm and inexplicably hopeful, and as John carefully shifts away and upright against the headboard, he realizes the echo of Jo's thoughts matches his own.

That's a dangerous road, and one he doesn't dare follow, so he releases Jo's hand under the pretext of maneuvering himself into a comfortable sitting position.

"I wish you wouldn't keep getting yourself almost killed," Jo mutters, standing and crossing the room to dig in the miniature fridge that sits nestled in a corner by the window. "Though I guess I appreciate you doing it nearby if you're gonna." She comes back with a bottle of water in hand, and gives it over as she sits down again, still too close. John twists the cap off and takes a hearty swallow, stubbornly ignoring her nearness—even more stubbornly ignoring the way she fidgets with the familiar ring circling her left thumb.

"Thought you had a roommate," he says finally, for want of anything better to say. The matching furniture in the room speaks of a second occupant, as does the unmade other bed and the clutter covering both bulky wooden desks.

"She won't barge in," says Jo. "I put a scrunchy on the doorknob."

"Oh," John says dumbly. "Good." Not that he has any idea what that means.

"It's code," Jo explains patiently. A humoring smile sneaks across her face with the words. "Everyone on the floor uses it. A hair tie on the doorknob means 'don't come in.' It's practically sacred."

"Oh," he says again, this time with comprehension.

"Anyway, Amanda has already sexiled me like six times this month. She can deal."

Now _there's_ a word John probably couldn't have come up with if his life depended on it. He doesn't ask for clarification, though. It seems self-explanatory enough.

"Thanks," he says awkwardly.

"You're welcome," says Jo. "Now. You want breakfast? I've got granola bars or pop tarts."

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Command**  
\- — - — - — -

  
"Out of the question," says John. He sounds gruff and agitated, an intimidating combination that might bully most people into dropping the subject, but Jo knows him too well. They've been going back and forth for twenty minutes now, and she can tell just how close she is to winning him over.

"It wouldn't hurt you to _try_ and be reasonable," she points out calmly.

The challenge only makes his expression darken further, and Jo's eyebrows climb as she watches him pace a rut into the dirt. Classmates give her strange looks as they walk past, and Jo willfully ignores the outside scrutiny. It's not like their disagreement is actually bothering anyone out here, tucked in the sharp shade cast by the residence hall.

"No," he says, and sounds deceptively resolute. "It's too dangerous."

"Oh, please," she says, stepping forward and cocking her head to the side. She keeps her eyebrows high and her expression exasperated. "You've done the same research I have. You know it's probably just a kelpie. It's not like I haven't seen worse."

"I don't care what it _probably_ is," John mutters, but he finally stops tracking grooves into the dirt and looks at her. "I'm not putting you in harm's way."

Jo edges closer and smirks, tilting her head back so she can meet his eyes, because he doesn't stand a chance against her ace in the hole. She drops her voice to a quiet, subtle murmur and says, "Okay. Suppose I give this hunt a pass. How are you going to stop me from hopping on a bus to some other gig? It's a big country, John. Lots of evil out there that needs killing."

John's eyes go wide and he actually takes a step forward—there's not nearly enough space between them now, but Jo's not complaining. She's just waiting for the inevitable capitulation. It will come with clearly delineated terms, like a military surrender, but it will come just the same.

She can see the gears spinning in his head for long moments, searching for a way to outmaneuver her. She and John both know there isn't one.

"Just for the sake of argument, say I take you with me," John finally says. His tone is carefully measured, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Will you give me your word that you won't go off hunting on your own?"

"For now." Her smirk falls as she says it, so he can see the weight of somber intent on her face. She's not playing this time. There's too much uncertainty in the future, and she doesn't want to make him a promise that may tie her hands or be inevitably broken two, five, ten years down the line. "Take me with you, John. I promise I'll try to stay out of trouble." It's the best she has to offer, and she refuses to feel guilty for that. There's a vindictive corner of her heart that likes the idea of giving him even a glimpse of what it feels like, knowing he's out there putting his own neck on the line every day—knowing he's alone more often than not.

A more rational voice points out that, with the strength of the bond between them, he probably already knows.

"Okay," John sighs, eyelids sliding shut as he turns his face away. "Grab what you need and we'll head out. I'll try and get you back in time for your Monday classes."

"Thank you," she says, stepping in for a surprise hug and then stepping back just as quickly. She can't help smiling again when his eyes blink open just a little bit wider than before.

"But remember," she continues, cheeky tone aimed at lightening the mood as she drops her hands to her hips. "You don't get to boss me around just because we share a soul. This is an even partnership, not a chain of command."

"Somehow I don't picture you following orders no matter what I say," John admits with a reluctant smile. "Hup to it, girl, we need to start driving before sundown."

Jo gives him a wider, warmer smile as she pulls out her key card and heads into the building.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Maunder**  
\- — - — - — -

  
The thing about curses is that, once they're triggered, there's no outrunning them. You just have to buckle down and wait for them to blow over.

The other thing about curses is that sometimes, no matter how well you plan your attack, they bite you in the ass anyway.

"Had to go touching the chalice," Bobby is muttering. "Imbued with the essence of Bacchus and you had to go and touch it."

"Not my fault," John argues. He tries to emphasize his point with a dramatic gesture, because a dramatic gesture can only help his case, but instead he smacks Bobby in the shoulder hard enough to make his hand sting. "All the research said y'had to _drink_ from it. Didn't say a single damn thing 'bout the curse passin' by _touch_."

"You're still an idiot," Bobby informs him matter-of-factly, steering him through the front door and into the house, down into a chair in Bobby's cluttered kitchen. John blinks and tries to clear his vision, and for a moment it works, but then things go blurry again and there are _two_ of Bobby. John watches as both of them sit down across from him.

"You feel drunk yet?" Bobby asks redundantly.

"No," John says, feeling suddenly petulant. "Feel fuckin' _weird's_ what. How long's it s'posed to last again?"

"Hopefully only until morning," Bobby says with a tired sigh. "And I'm not letting you out of my sight until then. Just… try not to do or say anything embarrassing, okay?"

Yeah, John can do that. He can keep his mouth shut entirely, and just wait the curse out.

Three hours later he's soliloquizing, off on a tangent about how hunters pretend to be team players but really they're all just lone wolves, itching to make the kill by themselves.

"But not you, Bobby," John backtracks gruffly. "You're good. You work with people, and you help people, and you _mean_ it. You got a guy's back in a fight."

Bobby gives him a bleary, exhausted look and just says, "Sure I do, chucklehead."

"But no one else," John insists. "Not a single person I've ever met that's not family, anyway. It always ends bad 'ventually. Like for Bill. Bill should never've gone out that way." John feels regret bubbling up in his chest, an old familiar ache, and why is he thinking about this _now_? It's been years since Bill Harvelle died, so why does the impotent, useless guilt suddenly feel like new?

"You saying he would've been better off without someone watching his back?" Bobby asks, genuine curiosity sparking in his eyes.

"Maybe not," John says morosely. "Maybe he'd be dead no matter what. Even if he'd gone in alone, or even if he'd gone with someone else, or even if he'd never gone at all. Maybe if I'd been there he'd still be dead, and then it would be _my_ fault." John is ready to start sobering up. Any time now. He's also ready to stop feeling like he's been kicked in the chest.

"John, you can't—"

"I know," John steamrolls right past the interruption. "I know, Bobby. 'If' and 'maybe' never did anyone a lick of good. But he died too soon. He left so much behind, god, his _family_. I can't even…" He can't even imagine if it'd been him. The image of his boys growing up without him leaves his blood cold, even now that they're grown men that don't need him anymore—especially Sam, off at college and putting together a life that's got nothing to do with this mess.

"You know Bill's little girl's in school, right?" says John—hairpin turn, sure, but his thoughts are never far from Jo these days. "Went off to college, full ride an' everything. She's into science."

"Is she," Bobby says blandly.

"She grew up so fast," John says. "Got all tall and soft. Well, not _that_ tall, but. Taller. Pretty." Except no, he's not supposed to think that, and he rubs a hand over his face and mutters, "Fuck, what am I saying?"

"Things Ellen would probably cut off your hands for," says Bobby, trying to laugh it off.

"She's practically a child," John whispers, even as his mind provides plenty of mental images that argue otherwise.

"You know she ain't," says Bobby, expression shifting smoothly into a more somber look. "And _you_ sure as hell don't really think so, or you wouldn't be muttering about her like some lovesick moron. You ain't that kind of man."

"I'm not lovesick," John grouses.

"Moron," Bobby mutters.

The next morning John remembers just enough to be embarrassed, but they both pretend otherwise.

"I say anything?" John asks.

"Nothing interesting," says Bobby. "But you still managed to ramble on all damn night. I'm surprised my ears haven't fallen off."

John bids him goodbye around noon: there's no reason to stick around since Bobby managed to deal with the chalice before dragging him home.

"John," Bobby calls from the porch. "Be careful. Your situation's already complicated enough."

John pretends not to understand.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Urge**  
\- — - — - — -

  
She knows he's close—the warm pulse of the bond has long since given away his proximity—but he's been close for days without so much as a phone call. It's the kind of silence that makes Jo wait and worry: praying to a god she only believes in sometimes for John Winchester to make it through one more hunt, so he can pick up the phone and call her.

She's surprised when she makes her way home from class on Friday afternoon and sees his truck on the street as she crosses campus. She finds him waiting on the low stone bench outside her dorm, and his face hangs dark with trouble. He brightens instantly when he notices her approach.

"Hey, stranger," she says with a greeting smile. "What are you doing in my corner of nowhere?" She hops off the sidewalk and onto the worn, snow-dusted path that circles past the bench and around the building.

"Just passing through," he says as he stands. His smile is genuine, but his eyes remain clouded. She pops up onto her toes to hug him, and for a second picks up the heavy throb of nervous fear. It makes her pull back to look at him, arms still draped loosely around his neck.

"John, what is it?" she asks quietly.

He visibly shakes himself, stepping back and out of the circle of her arms. He takes a calming breath, and Jo feels the edge of fear even out into a more familiar, quiet hint of anxiety, constant and steady and just below the surface. Jo recognizes it as the man's default setting, at least when he's not being distracted by something more immediate.

"It's nothing," he says.

She gives him a meaningful look, arms crossed and one eyebrow quirked at the obvious falsehood.

"I didn't mean… It's not _nothing_ , but it's nothing that can be helped," he hedges. "I just got some new information, is all. It unsettled me a bit."

"Information about what?" asks Jo. She steps forward, closer, and doesn't bother to mask the worried curiosity that shines in her eyes.

"Better you don't know," he says. "Safer. There's no point until I figure out how to fix it."

Jo regards him for a long moment, taking in the tired lines of his face in the bright, chilly afternoon light. Her heart pangs with so many different emotions at the sight of him, and she feels suddenly helpless at her inability to smooth that look off his features.

"Come on," she finally says and takes his hand. "Mike's Pub is just down the street. I think we could both use a pint."

And even though she's still got her bag full of books slung over one shoulder, she starts pulling him that direction without hesitation. It doesn't occur to him to take his hand back for almost half a block, and when he finally does Jo doesn't miss the way he pulls away a little too fast. She immediately misses the warmth of his fingers against her skin.

"Wait a second," says John as they approach the clouded windows of the bar's front entrance. "You don't turn twenty-one until April."

Jo makes an exaggerated point of looking around to make sure no one's listening, then leans up and in to whisper in his ear, "There's this thing called a fake I.D. It's good for a lot of things, including convincing bartenders you're old enough for whatever's on tap."

John laughs as he steps through the door and holds it open for her, but he sounds more nervous than amused, and the air between them shifts. There's something in the way his eyes track her as she follows him through the door, something in the way his whole body gravitates toward her that makes Jo want to do something monumentally stupid.

"John," she says as the door swings closed behind her. He gives her a quizzical look, but he doesn't back away when she steps forward. He follows when she grabs him by the sleeve and drags him over to the corner by the pay phone.

"What is it, kiddo?" he asks once they're relatively isolated. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she quickly reassures him. "Nothing, just. John, do you… Have you ever…?" ' _What_ ,' she berates herself. ' _Thought about kissing me_?' She damn well knows the answer is yes, and she knows just as well that he'll never admit it aloud.

She can see awareness reaching his eyes, realization as some hint of her intent trickles through the bond and tips her hand before she's worked out a solid game plan. Any second he'll bolt, call her from the road if she's lucky, and he'll be gone for _months_ pretending they never came to this particular precipice.

"No," she whispers, even though he hasn't said anything aloud for her to disagree with. And just like that she stops fighting the urge to kiss him. She closes the short, electric distance between them and sets one hand over his heart, her other hand just beside the first. She feels a rush of heat cloud his mind, and his breath speeds up beneath her palms. Then slowly, deliberately, she slides her hands up his chest and around the back of his neck. She buries her fingers in his hair, loving how soft it feels against her skin, and when she presses in and pulls him towards her, he meets her halfway.

Jo lets her eyes drift shut as she melts her body against his, and she gasps into the kiss when his arms come up around her, a protective circle of warmth at her waist and then the slide of his hands up her back, between her shoulder blades. She holds him tighter, encouraging and eager, and there's heat igniting low in her gut that makes her want more.

It ends too abruptly, with John jerking free of her arms and taking a panicked step back. She can feel the wash of chaos in his mind, see every emotion reflected in his wide, startled eyes.

Jo is still trying to find the words to calm him down when John whispers a ragged, "I'm sorry," and bolts toward the door.

"Wait!" Jo calls, diving after him.

But when she reaches the sidewalk outside and glances down the street in either direction, John Winchester is already gone.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Scrub**  
\- — - — - — -

  
The night is quiet enough to make him restless, warm air sifting through the screen of the open window. There's just enough wind to rattle the trees outside the tall dormitory, and John shifts in his chair without letting his eyes drift from their protective vigil.

Jo makes a soft sound in her sleep, a short string of syllables that don't quite form words, and John can see the clear contours of her face reflecting moonlight. Her brows are drawn tightly together, her features heavy with an expression that speaks of ugly images roaming her subconscious. John thinks about waking her, but the girl is exhausted—and he wishes he could blithely assumes it's nothing but the stress of finals, but he knows it's got just as much to do with more hurtful things. John thinks it's pretty goddamned unfair for a kid's birthday to fall so damn close to the anniversary of her father's death.

Jo's expression tightens, her breath escaping in a quick gasp and then evening back out, but John doesn't need her face or her sleepy mutterings to tell him her dreams aren't pleasant ones. He can feel the blurred, staticky edges of her dreamscape for himself. There's nothing clear—no images or sounds or smells or words—just an uncomfortable energy slithering through his veins, and the phantom flavor of sadness and fear.

The sensation is sharper now, but it's not all that different from what he felt right before his phone rang and Jo's voice asked if he was close—if he could maybe come over for awhile. It's a lot like the sensations that bubbled through his mind when she let him in the back door of the brick-walled building, her soft voice babbling explanations about the empty halls and the long weekend, about her roommate visiting family in Michigan.

"I'm sorry," she'd said at the time. "I know this is sorta out of nowhere."

"Don't worry about it," he'd said. He couldn't blame her for not wanting to be alone.

When Jo's brow furrows deeper, John feels an accompanying pang of shaky fear, and he reaches out instinctively, leaning forward in his chair and brushing her bangs aside with gentle fingers. She calms instantly at the touch, her features smoothing out and dreams softening where he can feel them at the edge of his own consciousness. Her face is softer like this, vulnerable and delicate and, god help him, beautiful.

John realizes only belatedly that he's got no excuse to keep touching her. He draws his arm back with careful deliberation, and when her brow stays smooth and calm in his absence, he scrubs his hand distractedly across his face.

"Fuckin' hell," he whispers, because he knows that he should leave. He should check into a motel and leave her a note. She can call him in the morning, and he'll meet her outside with coffee and donuts, where it's sunny and public and easy. But he definitely shouldn't stay, shouldn't be sitting here watching her sleep like he's got any goddamned right.

Except he does. She invited him. She knew her dreams would be restless tonight, and she wouldn't have called if she didn't need him.

He supposes the dreams could be a clever excuse. He's been avoiding her, even beyond the busy schedule that hunting holds him to, and she knows him too well not to realize exactly what he's doing. She knows him well enough to catch him out when he looks at her too long—when his eyes darken and he can't quite turn away fast enough—when she meets him with a heated smile and a challenge in her eyes. She must know exactly what he's avoiding.

But John didn't sense any of those messy, complicated intentions when she greeted him by his truck this afternoon. No placeless tension or dangerous hope. Just a tired girl and an old sadness as she hugged him and led the way inside.

He can almost pretend she didn't kiss him the last time he was here. He can almost pretend neither one of them is harboring thoughts that would have Ellen Harvelle reaching for the pistol she hides beneath the bar.

John's phone is in his hands, set to silent so he can watch the time, and the screen lights to notify him of a new text. He checks it immediately, but it doesn't sound urgent. Just a note from Dean: ' _Call when u hit the road tomorrow_.' John texts his son back with a quick affirmative—they'll have to rendezvous before they head west on Caleb's new lead—but it's only a matter of minutes before his eyes settle back on Jo.

He breathes a tired, confused sigh, and goes right on watching her sleep.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Seek**  
\- — - — - — -

  
Jo wakes feeling protected and secure, and she's somehow not surprised to find that John hasn't retreated from his close vigil in the chair beside her bed. If anything, he's moved _closer_. He sits within touching distance now. She could reach out and set her hand on his arm, and she wouldn't even have to stretch.

"You're not human, are you," she teases sleepily, shifting onto her side so she can look at him more directly. "You're actually a cleverly designed android that doesn't need sleep."

"You can't tell anyone," John deadpans. "If my secret gets out, it could mean the end of civilization as we know it." His expression holds somber, but the bond between them ripples with warm laughter. Jo smiles, and John slowly, easily returns the smile in kind.

"Thank you for staying," Jo says softly. She slides a hand toward him, and he meets her halfway, large palm sliding to cover her fingers. He doesn't answer her with words, but his eyes carry all the reassurance Jo needs. He takes his hand back quickly enough—quicker than Jo would like—but the moment lasts, and Jo stretches and finally sits up.

She sends him in search of breakfast so she can shuffle through her morning routine, though her mood falls the second he's gone. The dorm room, so sparse to begin with, feels darker and emptier now that she's alone again. The morning sunlight limping in through the window does nothing to brighten the gloom. She's left with the same unpleasant weight in her chest that made her pick up the phone to call John in the first place.

It's been five years. She shouldn't still miss her dad like it happened goddamn yesterday. But the anniversary still digs at her every time, hard and deep, and leaves her feeling chilled and helpless all over again.

There's a worried pulse at the back of her mind, John's warm, cautious concern, and Jo tries to send enough wordless reassurance to keep him from turning around and coming straight back.

Later, when it's just the two of them on a bench outside, she says, "I hope I didn't take you away from anything too important." Even if it turns out she did, she won't regret picking up the phone, but she'd still like to know if she's being an inconvenience.

"Nothing that can't wait," says John. But Jo feels his thoughts shift darker even before the words are out of his mouth. Not in a way that says he's lying, but rather with a familiar weight that says there's something more he's not telling her. Something really goddamned important.

"Is there anything I can do? " she asks, even though she already knows what his answer will be. He smiles, soft and sad just the way she expects, and shakes his head.

"You don't have to worry about that, sweetheart," he says gently. "It ain't your problem."

"The hell it's not," she mutters, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Like any of John Winchester's problems don't belong just as much to her these days. But she knows she won't win him over with pure logic, no matter how sound. He's too hell-bent on protecting her for anything like reason to sink in. So instead she asks, "Would you believe me if I said a psychic once told me I could help you?"

John looks at her sharply at that, face twisting into a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

"It's true," Jo presses on, setting aside the empty, crinkled wax-paper from her maple cruller. She glances down at her hands, at the sunlight glinting off the familiar contours of her ring. She twists it around her thumb, a gesture that's habit, and when she raises her eyes she finds John watching her with a strange, unreadable expression.

She doesn't have to read it: she can feel his internal conflict for herself. She's got more than an inkling what the sight of her fidgeting with his ring is doing to him.

"She said the safest thing for me to do was keep my distance from you," Jo murmurs, knowing it's nothing John doesn't already think. "And when I told her that couldn't happen, she said that was all right. That maybe I could help."

"This psychic have a name, by chance?" John asks cautiously.

"Missouri," Jo says instantly. "Her name was Missouri."

John's eyes narrow and darken, alarming comprehension, and he looks away so fast Jo finds herself watching the side of his face instead of looking him in the eye.

"She say _how_ you could help?" John presses.

Jo shakes her head, and catches her lower lip nervously between her teeth. She's only seen this particular look on John's face once or twice, always in the course of hunting, always right there in the heat of battle when the difficult decisions need to be made.

"John, what is it?" she asks, heart picking up to a rapid pace in her chest.

"There are some things I should probably tell you," John says quietly. "You're probably not going to like them."

"So just tell me and get it over with," says Jo.

"You ever hear of a demon with yellow eyes?" John asks.

He turns his gaze on her, piercing and intent and full of questions, and the rest of the world stands still.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Show**  
\- — - — - — -

  
John knows about Sam's graduation ceremony even before Dean fills him in, but Dean still calls, and the invite makes John's chest feel tight with gratitude.

Sam probably doesn't even want him there—not after four years of silence, never mind the fight that took them apart in the first place.

But John doesn't hesitate. "I'll be there," he says. Sam doesn't even have to talk to him if he doesn’t want to, though that thought makes John's heart hurt quietly. Still, one unwelcome old man shouldn't be enough to ruin the boy's otherwise happy celebration, and John knows he can't stay away.

He's missed too much already.

Dean greets him on campus, at the north end of a packed-full parking lot, with a smile and a hug and a relieved, "You made it!"

"Stanford's not that hard to find on a map, son," John says. The humor feels a little forced, but it still gets him a throaty laugh and a roll of Dean's eyes—and then his son is leading him across campus. They get caught in the herd, slow-moving across the quad alongside hundreds of other people.

The ceremony is outside, and John watches with warm, uncontained pride as Sam crosses the stage. There's light in his chest, white-hot and expanding, and he's starting to think he might just explode from it. He glances to his left and finds Dean staring straight ahead with an impossibly wide grin. John's own cheeks are starting to ache, which means he probably looks about the same.

Sam turns their direction after accepting his diploma—looks straight at them, like picking them out of the crowd is nothing. John wishes they were sitting closer. He can't make out the expression on his son's face from here.

His first instinct after that is to leave before the students emerge onto the main quad. That way, Sam doesn't have to acknowledge him. They don't have to share some farce of a peaceful conversation just for the sake of appearances.

Sam doesn't have to pretend to be happy to see him.

But John can't make himself leave, and the look on Dean's face tells him his eldest wouldn't let him anyway.

"Wait here," Dean says suddenly. "Gonna go get us some punch." He gives John a look, solid and serious, and adds, "Seriously. Don't move. I'll never find you again in this crowd."

John waits obediently, spending a moment marveling at the surreal sensation of following orders from Dean rather than the reverse. He feels uncomfortable and exposed here—too bright, too open, too many people—but he forces himself to breathe and stay calm. Reminds himself that there are no threats here today. And that if it turns out there are, he's as prepared as always.

When Dean returns, there's no punch in his hands. But he's got Sam in tow.

John briefly considers making a run for it, but it's not a serious consideration. For one thing, he's already here and he's already been spotted. For another, the look on Sam's face as his boys approach is nothing like John expected. There's no anger there—no frustrated, looming confrontation. Sam's face is a blank, careful neutral.

But his eyes shine with hesitant, hopeful light.

"Hey, Sammy," says John, his heart beating a nervous, hopeful drumbeat of its own.

"Dad," says Sam, inclining his head in greeting. The gesture makes the two colored tassels swing minutely from the square cardboard hat on his head. He and John both fall silent, uncertain, and John can feel Dean's eyes darting back and forth between them.

"That getups looks good on you, Sammy," John finally says. His voice sounds too loud in his ears, bright and grating. But the words make Sam's shoulders ease down, and the first hint of a smile peeks across his lips. "Ridiculous, of course," John adds, feeling a relieved smile of his own spreading across his face. "But good. You looked great out there."

Sam's smile slides wider, and so does John's, and relief is suddenly a palpable force in the air.

He steps forward before he can overthink the urge and drags Sam down into a hug—the boy's even taller now, and he was plenty tall four years ago. John wraps an arm around Sam's shoulder and holds on tight, breath unsteady and eyes prickling threateningly. When he pulls away, the matching redness in Sam's eyes says his son is on the same crumbling ground he is.

"How long are you staying?" Sam asks, finally stepping away. "We could— I mean, if you wanted—…"

"I'd love to," says John. He doesn't know what he's just agreed to, but he's pretty sure the specifics aren't important. The achy-bright smile that reclaims Sam's face at his response proves that well enough.

"Great," says Sam. "Awesome. Okay. I've… actually got to do pictures with a few people quick, but then we can get out of here."

"Sounds good," says John, marveling at the fact that they're even having this conversation.

He watches as Sam starts to maneuver his way back through the crowd, Dean following at his brother's elbow for another moment. Even from this distance, John hears Dean's triumphant voice proclaim, "I told you he'd show." He doesn't catch Sam's reply, but from the way both boys are smiling, it can't have been bad.

John's got no delusions that this will be easy. Him and Sam, they'll probably be back to butting heads again by the time the night is over. They're too much alike, and they've got too many years of bad blood between them to brush it all aside like nothing. They both said some pretty awful things the night Sam stormed out and didn't come home.

But what they've got now is something, at least. Not a fresh start, exactly, but a chance to make things right. A chance to put the pieces back together and see how they fit—maybe find a way to be part of each others' lives again without tearing each other apart.

Dean returns to his side and nudges him with a smirk and a pointed elbow, and John doesn't even try to tone down his smile. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he doesn't need to take it out to figure out who's calling.

He makes a mental note to call Jo later, then turns to Dean and says, "I could've sworn you promised me some punch."

Dean laughs and leads the way.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Slake**  
\- — - — - — -

  
John answers his phone on the first ring, and he doesn't even get a chance to say hello before Jo's voice is in his ear asking, "You close? I need a favor."

She's sneaky, putting the question that way. If it were a purely social call, John would probably find a way to keep his distance. When he thinks about Jo lately he feels a dangerous inevitability working its way through his blood. He also feels guilt and fear in direct proportion, and staying away seems like the only sensible course.

But ' _I need a favor_ ' means ' _I need you_ ', and they both know John can't stay away from that.

"I'm a ways out," he says. "But I can be there by tomorrow afternoon. What's up, kiddo?" He cringes internally the second the nickname is out of his mouth, but he can't take it back now.

"I need to be out of the dorm and into my new apartment by Tuesday, and Jack and Trish both bailed on me." She actually sounds sheepish as she explains, like she's embarrassed at having to call him in on something so mundane. "I talked to mom about coming up with the van, but she can't close the bar down this week and Ash doesn't have a license. I'd really rather not rent a U-haul for just a television, a mattress and a couple dozen cardboard boxes."

"I'll get there fast as I can," John promises, and feels a warning pulse of heat in his chest.

He speeds the entire drive to Omaha and pulls up in front of Jo's dorm at ten o'clock the next morning, way ahead of schedule. She's waiting for him on a bench outside, a knowing smile lighting her features—like she felt the moment he hit town and has been counting down the seconds to his arrival.

The day is dry and sunny, and they make easy work of loading Jo's boxed and organized possessions into the back of John's truck. It all stacks easily in place, with a couple bungee cords across the top to secure everything, and since there's not a cloud in the sky John doesn't bother with the tarp he keeps folded in the corner by the wheel well.

"Thought you said there was a mattress," he says when Jo climbs into the cab beside him. He watches from the corner of his eye as she settles comfortably into the passenger seat.

"Not here," says Jo. "I'm buying one from a friend who lives up the block. We need to stop and pick it up." As John pulls out of the parking lot and follows Jo's gestured directions, she continues, "I thought about buying a new one, but you wouldn't believe what a decent queen-sized mattress costs."

"I wouldn't even know what to guess," John admits.

"This is the house," she says, and John parks in a short, steep driveway on the left side of the street. The mattress sits a little cockeyed over the top of the other cargo in the truck, but they strap it in securely enough. They only drive a few minutes further before Jo is squeezing his shoulder and pointing at a tall, red building.

"That's the place," she says.

John pulls into the small, full parking lot and finds a space towards the far end of the building. Jo gives him a pointed look, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she says, "I made sure to take a room on the first floor. "

"Still no elevator, huh?" says John, smiling in spite of himself. Her hand still rests on his arm, and while the touch is making his heart beat a little too fast, he has to admit that it feels warm and comfortable and right.

The apartment is a small studio, one room with barely enough space for both a table and a bed, and then a kitchen nook set off to the side—there are two closed doors along one wall that John assumes must be a closet and bathroom. 'Quaint' isn't the first word that comes to mind, but it looks clean and sturdy at least, which is more than John can say for most of the places he's slept in the past twenty years.

"Cute," he finally says, and Jo laughs outright.

"Yeah, it's not much," she says. "And it's going to be downright barren for awhile, but at least it comes with a microwave."

"Thank god for that," John teases, and follows her back outside.

Unloading the truck goes even faster than loading it did in the first place, and when they finish there's a lopsided pyramid of boxes along one wall. The mattress lies flat in a corner by the windows, and the small television sits unplugged by the closet door. Jo looks downright satisfied with that state of affairs, and John watches affectionately as she starts poking through some of the boxes.

"Looking for something specific?" he asks. He can't fathom that she plans on unpacking everything right now. It's been a long enough day already.

"I need sheets and pillowcases if I'm going to get any sleep tonight," she explains, still digging. "And I wouldn't mind a shower after all that carrying, but the towels are in with the bedclothes. I think they were towards the top here somewhere."

John nods and decides not to try and help. If there's a system, the last thing she needs is for him to get in there and muck it up.

"Ha!" Jo declares triumphantly. "Here, you can go first if you want." She tosses him one of the navy blue towels she's just pulled out of a big, squashed-looking box. "I still need to figure out where the hell my pillows got to." John watches for a moment as Jo digs determinedly into a new box, and finally decides that yeah, he could use a warm shower. Helping a college student move shouldn't be anywhere near as draining as chasing down a werewolf or fighting a banshee, but he feels dusty and tired, and a shower sounds good.

There's no soap or shampoo in the stall, but John is content without. He takes just a quick, cold rinse because he's too impatient to let the water warm up—and a cold shower is something he sort of needs right now anyway, considering the thoughts he's trying not to have. As he towels his hair dry and pulls his clothes back on, he vows to get back on the road and head out within the hour. No reason to stay now that he's no longer needed.

Except when he steps back out into the main room, nearly tripping over a half-opened box in his path, Jo pops to her feet from the newly covered mattress and says, "There's no real food in the kitchen yet. You want to grab something from the deli on the corner while I take my turn?" She's got a towel over one shoulder and a smile on her face, and all John's instincts tell him she's deliberately trying to keep him from leaving.

"Sure," he finds himself saying anyway. Maybe a little distance will help him get his head on straight, where a shower didn't do much good.

But walking to the deli and back doesn't so much settle the restless energy in his blood as make him feel more anxious. His chest is full of warm, wanting urges—he's goddamn _thirsty_ is what he is, and no matter what direction he tries to twist his thoughts, he keeps coming back to Jo—the perfect cure. Satisfaction in easy reach, if he just dares to take it.

John tells himself he doesn't dare.

He lets himself back into the apartment with the key he snaked on his way out, just in time to hear the water cut off behind the bathroom door. He crosses to the kitchen and sets his purchases on the counter, entirely too focused on the overheard rustle of the plastic curtain and the slippery sound of footsteps on tile.

When Jo emerges, she's still drying off her hair. Her face is hidden in the folds of the towel, and her t-shirt is soaking through with the clean, damp vestiges of her shower. She's in shorts now instead of the jeans she's been wearing all day, and errant drops of water trail down her legs towards the floor.

For a moment John can't remember how to breathe.

"Did you get me roast beef?" Jo asks, tossing the towel aside and combing her fingers through the damp strands of her hair.

John nods, because he can't find his voice.

His silence doesn't seem to surprise Jo. She turns with calculated grace, locking him with a heated look and crossing her arms. She stands there with one hip cocked to the side, and the smile on her face is every bit as suggestive as the devious wave of intent he feels pouring through the bond at him. He wants to get closer, and he wants to get out of here and run, and he wants to reach out and touch, take, hold on and never let go.

The look in her eyes says she knows all that and more.

He takes one step back when she approaches, then can't convince his feet to take him any farther. He craves her proximity, so strongly that he can't retreat—even when she stands right in front of him and pops up on her toes to kiss him on his surprised, parted lips.

"No," he says, breaking the kiss almost as fast as it starts, turning his head away and staring at the wall to his left—because if he looks her in the eyes, he'll surrender as fast as breathing. "It ain't right, and it sure as hell ain't fair to you."

" _Fair_?" Jo asks, laughing despite the thick frustration John can hear in her voice. "First, since when do we give a shit what's fair? And second… what's not fair about it?" She leans to the side, into his line of vision, stubborn and not to be ignored, and John's jaw clenches with the effort of keeping his hands to himself.

"You wouldn't feel this way about me if our souls weren't crazy-glued together," he whispers, and the way her eyes soften sets something loose in his chest.

"That's not true," says Jo. "And even if it were. So what? We are what we are."

"Jo—"

"No," she cuts him off. "I'm not going to waste time wondering _why_. Isn't it enough that we both want the same thing?"

John can't answer through the sudden lump of emotion in his throat. It's too much to process at once, all the hope and want and doubt and fear, and a stubborn swell of guilt that threatens to swamp him and drag him under.

"Stop that," says Jo, and her palm is warm on his cheek. "John, please. What the hell do you have to feel guilty for? You saved my life. And this whole soul mess… you have to know I wouldn't trade it for anything."

"I'm more than twice your age," he points out, but his resolve is failing and he knows Jo can feel it, wavering on the verge of collapse as he is.

"Do I look like I give a fuck about that?" she says seriously. When he doesn't respond, she continues, "I tried dating, you know. For all the good it did. Complete goddamn waste of my time, but I tried. So don't tell me it's not fair. Just… shut up, and stop being scared of the inevitable, and _kiss_ me already!"

And God help him, John does.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Inhale**  
\- — - — - — -

  
The mattress squeaks against the floor as he lowers Jo onto it. Her hair, still shower-wet and dark, instantly dampens the pillow beneath her head, and her hands grasp at John, pulling him closer. Urging him to kiss her deeper and harder, a demanding press of lips and tongue and just a hint of teeth. John groans and presses against her, blood thrilling at the impossible heat, and the line of her body is firm and soft beneath him.

She twists out of her clothes with an unpracticed grace, tossing them aside and reaching for the buttons of his shirt, still kissing him. A needy impatience bleeds through the bond and settles into his skin like a hungry frenzy. Or maybe he's the impatient one, and she's a frantic force of hunger goading him on, but either way he can't toss his own clothes aside fast enough. He needs to know what her skin feels like before the intensifying loop of sensory feedback between them is too much to take.

She produces a condom from somewhere, clever girl, and stops kissing him to say in a breathy voice, "Don't freak out, okay?"

"About what?" he asks, and barely recognizes his own voice rumbling deep and shaky in his chest. She looks him in the eye, confident and heated, but there's a hesitant curiosity trickling through the bond—a nervous energy completely at odds with the confident heat of her hands.

"Oh my god," he realizes aloud. "You've never—"

"I said don't freak out," she admonishes him.

"Jesus," he mutters, burying his face against her throat and taking a deep, ragged breath—fighting the threatening edge of panic. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you now," she says, shoving at his chest until he's got no choice but to back off and look her in the eye. There's no uncertainty on her face: no doubt or indecision, no fear beyond the quiet worry that John will take off without finishing what they've started.

"It doesn't change anything," she insists, and John realizes she's right. He feels overheated and overwhelmed. The weight of revelation hangs sticky in his heart, but it doesn't change anything. They're still tied inextricably together, a messy knot of want and love and soul stuff, and if he walks away now where will that leave them?

On the same damn path, he realizes—walking together as intertwined as ever, headed for this very same precipice all over again. Like destiny. Because John knows he'll never be able to stay away, and the intensity in Jo's eyes—in her heart, where he can feel it beating in time with his own—says she'll wait for him as long as it takes.

"You're right," he murmurs, and kisses her again—slow and eager and sweet, pressing her into the pillows and trailing his fingers through her hair.

There's no point in running anymore.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Exhale**  
\- — - — - — -

  
Morning wakes Jo, warm and easy, and her first sense of the world is the safe contentment that permeates her body—makes her smile and snuggle further into the pillow. She breathes out, slow and soft and comfortable, and drifts in that sleepy space just this side of wakefulness.

Her second sense is the wall of heat along her back and the warm weight of an arm draped aver her side and across her stomach. Her brain processes the information slowly, and she's more than a little surprised when she puts it together and realizes John hasn't fled the apartment. He's here, close and oddly familiar, and apparently still unconscious.

"Morning," says John's sleep-graveled voice in her ear.

So maybe not unconscious after all.

"Morning," she murmurs back, letting her own arm drift to cover his, her hand lining up to interlace their fingers. Her blood hums a happy note when he gives her an affectionate squeeze and kisses the back of her neck.

"I wasn't sure you'd stay," she admits softly, reveling in how close John feels right now—and not just physically. She can feel a quiet apology throb in the back of her head, and a lazy want that has the potential to roar to life at any moment.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, dropping a second kiss on the bare skin of her shoulder.

"Good," she says, smiling to add, "though I wish you meant that forever and not just until your next hunt." She's mostly teasing, but kind of not, and John holds her tighter as the words sink in.

"I'll stay as long as I can," he promises.

"And you'll come back soon, right?"

"And I'll come back soon."

"Good," says Jo. She shifts in his arms, squirming onto her back and then over to her other side so she can look him in the eye. "Are we okay? Really? I mean, you're not going to freak out the second you climb into your truck and leave, right?"

"What would be the point of waiting if I planned on freaking out?" he asks humoringly. "You'd still know, and you'd still find a way to chew me out for it."

"Damn right I would," says Jo. "So. Are we?"

"Yeah, sweetheart," says John, raising his hand to brush a thumb across her cheek. "We're good."

Jo knows—in her heart where their souls connect and bleed into each other—that it's the truth.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Slide**  
\- — - — - — -

  
Jo has met Dean and Sam before.

More than once over the years—enough so that they've got a friendly rapport and an odd sense of kinship. She's never hunted with them, doesn't think she ever will. Sam's mostly out of that world, from what she's heard. And Dean sticks pretty close to Sam these days.

Jo knows it's a relief to John, the fact that his boys are laying low and looking out for each other.

Dean actually hit on her once. It was almost sweet—awkward and entertaining and something she didn't consider for even a second. She already knew where her heart belonged by then, and charismatic as Dean might be, he was still just the next best thing. Jo didn't plan on settling.

So yes. She's met Sam and Dean. But this feels different.

She's been living in her new apartment for a week. She's had John in her bed every night since. And suddenly she has no idea how to interact with his boys.

They're out for drinks, and it feels like the world's worst family sitcom. Do they know? Should she tell them? Is it going to be enormously, unfathomably weird from now on?

She probably could have planned this better, set it up to sidestep these questions entirely. The hunt is over, she's got class on Monday—she could've just pulled an apologetic excuse, homework to get done and no time to waste, and then bought a bus ticket to take her home. But instead she's at a drab little bar with all three Winchesters, sharing a pitcher and making small talk. It's not uncomfortable, but it feels like it should be, and Jo's just about ready to crawl out of her skin from all the wondering she's doing.

Knowing that she's being irrational doesn't really help.

John mutters a gruff, "Gotta hit the head," and disappears, and suddenly Jo is left with just Sam and Dean. They're joshing each other amiably, nudging back and forth with elbows and shoulders.

"Are you guys planning to head out tonight or wait until morning?" Sam asks, reaching for the pitcher to top off his glass and then sliding it across the table to Jo.

"Don't know yet," Jo admits. "The traffic will be better if we go tonight, but I think we might both need to crash."

"You should wait until tomorrow," says Dean. "Stay and have another drink. Unless you have homework or something."

"No," Jo says, mouth quirking in a smile. "No homework." She already decided against using that particular story to escape. There's no tactical advantage to invoking it now.

Dean stands when John returns to the table, challenges his father to a game of pool. "Just for fun," he insists. "Come on, Dad. Bet I can kick your ass."

Which Jo knows full well are fighting words, and she laughs as the two of them move away through the crowd, towards the pool tables on the far side of the room. It's all about honor, now. She's curious to see who wins, but not quite curious enough to stand up and follow.

She and Sam sit in friendly enough silence for awhile, only a little bit uneasy. The bar is noisy and distracting around them, full and energized, and Jo finally turns to Sam and asks, "How are your classes going?"

"Good," says Sam. "Hard. I know the first year of law school is supposed to knock you flat, but it's still tough to get used to."

"I bet," says Jo. She wonders what made the youngest Winchester decide on law for a career path, but she doesn't feel quite right asking. They lapse into silence again, weirdly expectant this time, and Jo resists the urge to fidget in her seat.

"Look," Sam finally says. "There's not really a delicate way to do this, so I just… Dean and me… you know we're both okay with it, right?"

"Oh, jesus." Jo wants to thump her head forward against the table. "He _did_ tell you."

"Well… no, actually," says Sam. "But it's kind of hard to miss. You two are really different together all of a sudden."

"Oh," Jo says dumbly.

"I'm not trying to make a big thing out of this, I swear," says Sam. "We just didn't want you worrying."

"I…" Jo fumbles. Then takes a deliberate, calming breath and says, "Thanks."

They regard each other quietly for a long moment, and then Sam gets to his feet and says, "Come on. Let's go see who's winning."

Jo follows, grateful for both the absolution and the reprieve.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Lie**  
\- — - — - — -

  
Jo doesn't make it back to the Roadhouse more than every couple months when she's firmly entrenched in the academic year. Her course load is always heavy, and her occasional hunting trips with John take up most of the wiggle room she's built into her schedule.

But she tries not to take too long between visits, and sometimes she even imposes on John for a ride. She could easily fork over a few bucks for bus fare—hell, some months Mom offers to drive over and pick Jo up herself.

But Jo likes it better when she can hitch a ride in John's truck. His rough edges soften down on the highway—not that they're all that potent when it comes to Jo anyway. He's good company on the road, and Jo has always craved any extra time she can spend with the man.

It's even more convenient now—now that John is over more often, finding his way to Jo's apartment between hunts instead of crashing in any old motel that happens to be close. He rarely stays gone for more than a couple weeks at a stretch, and when he stops over, his longer visits always seem to end up with his research muraled across her wall, attached with tacks and tape. She's never going to get her security deposit back, but that seems like an unfathomably small price to pay in exchange for knowing she's the closest thing John Winchester has to a home base.

Especially since it means he'll stay longer and longer as he puzzles through the fact-gathering process on his next big hunt. Jo prefers it when she knows she can expect him in her bed for days at a stretch.

It also means sometimes he's already there when Jo gets the call telling her to get her butt home for a visit already. It means he's there in November to see Jo roll her eyes and say, "I love you, too, Mom. Yeah, sure thing, I'll be on the road by tomorrow. Yes, I _promise_ I'll call if I get sidetracked."

She arches her eyebrows at John in clear inquiry, and when he nods, she continues into the phone, "No, I shouldn't need to be picked up at the bus station. Great, see you soon. Love you."

"Been neglecting your mama?" John teases after she hangs up.

"Unforgivably," says Jo, tucking her phone into her back pocket. "We could head out early and surprise her, if you're not in the middle of anything right now."

"Gonna be waiting for a couple days on some info from Caleb," John says, and he's already moving—grabbing his empty duffel from its crumpled spot in the corner. "We might as well head out tonight."

She could probably convince him to let her drive, but she climbs complacently into the passenger seat instead, tucking a couple cans of coke into the space beside the seatbelt.

When they reach the Roadhouse, John gets nearly as warm a greeting as Jo, ambushed into a tight hug the second Ellen sees him. Jo grins at the sight—at the way John returns the gesture and mutters something under his breath that makes Ellen laugh. He'll probably fill her in on the joke later.

Jo feels a momentary twinge of something like regret when Ellen hoists John's small amount of luggage onto one shoulder and drags him towards the solitary guest room in the back. That's the downside of a visit home: having John so close and not having him in her bed.

"I don't like lying to your mom," he says quietly, later when it's just the two of them again. "Especially not when we're staying under her roof."

"Hey," says Jo, trying for a light tone but falling short. "I've never _lied_ to her about us. There are just some things I haven't told her yet."

"Lying by omission is still lying, babe," John says. His eyes are bright and intense as he regards her.

"It's not my fault she doesn't ask the right questions," Jo says uncomfortably. "Can we not talk about this right now?"

She's only got two nights before she needs to be back for class, and she keeps her mom company through as much of the time as she can. Jo hovers behind the bar while Ellen works, John sitting close with his journal, notes, research. Jo makes sure to keep topping off the glass of beer he sips at slowly all night.

It's a good visit, obviously shorter than Ellen would like, but pleasant just the same.

Both Jo and John are up early Sunday morning—sooner than they need to be on the road, but Jo's gotten to be a hell of a morning person since she stopped working in a bar, and John seems to keep whatever hours she does lately. They load the truck and then watch the sun rise, sharing an unspoken agreement to hit the road as soon as Ellen wakes up for goodbyes. It's quiet and calm, easy, and when John turns to go back inside, Jo catches his hand and gives it a squeeze.

There's no specific message she means to convey—nothing but the warm affection she knows he can already feel. But he stops short at the door anyway and turns to face her. His expression is neutral, but his eyes are bright and heated and smiling.

"Thanks for the ride," Jo says, grinning and stepping closer. She sets a hand on his chest and tilts her head back so she can look at him.

"No problem, sweetheart," John says, and the smile from his eyes starts to spread just as easily across his face. She tilts her head to one side, donning a deliberately contemplative expression, and then pops up on her toes to press a slow, chaste kiss to his mouth.

Half an hour later they bid Ellen a quiet farewell-for-now, and Jo is surprised when her mom doesn't give John the same warm hug she offered on their arrival.

"Winchester, I want to talk to you before you go," she says, and her face is so unreadable that even Jo can't decipher it. "Jo, honey, you go on outside. I won't keep him long."

Jo listens at the door, of course. The conversation isn't easy to make out, but she's got a hell of a lot of practice, and she picks up most of it, fills in the blanks for the rest.

"I can't tell you to stay away from her," Ellen is saying, and her voice is a cold fury like Jo has never heard before. "But don't you ever show your face in my bar again."

' _Oh, fuck_ ,' Jo thinks.

"Ellen—," says John.

"No. I don't want to hear it. Just get out. Now. And don't you dare come back."

John's face is dark when he emerges, his expression heavy and unreadable, and Jo doesn't even pretend she was doing anything besides listening in. The guilt and discontent and even anger are all rolling off him in waves, ricocheting back and forth through the bond between them.

He doesn't try to fill her in. They both know he doesn't have to.

"Maybe she'll come around," says Jo as she buckles her seatbelt, glancing at John where he's settling behind the wheel. It's false hope and fake cheer, but she tries to project reassurance at him anyway. She definitely knows better than to go in and try to talk to her mom right now.

"Sure," John says grimly. "Maybe she will." He pulls out of the lot, gravel crunching loudly beneath the wheels, and he starts to drive.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Capitulate**  
\- — - — - — -

  
"Mom, you don't know how it is between us. If you did, you wouldn't be angry at him."

Ellen doesn't respond—just keeps furiously scrubbing the glass in her hands with a red-and-white checkered towel. Jo doesn't expect anything more. This is the lead-in to the same conversation they've had every week for the past two months. It's usually a short endeavor, one that ends with a quick, stubborn change of subject and Ellen hanging up the phone a little too abruptly.

This is the first time they've had the conversation in person, and this time her mom can't shut her out or hang up on her. This time, Jo is determined to be heard.

"He's not taking advantage of me, or whatever other horrible idea it is you've got in your head," she insists. "If you had any idea how long he fought me off…"

"Really," Ellen snaps, slamming the glass down onto the bar and leveling a furious stare at Jo. "How long, then? How long has this been going on right under my nose? Did he at least wait until you were eighteen?"

" _Mom_!" Jo gasps as the implication beneath her mother's words settle in. Suddenly she can hear more than just rage in Ellen's voice—she hears a guilty, unraveling edge of horror, and she knows she has to fix it. "Mom," she says more calmly. "John would never do something like that. Of _course_ he never touched me back then, I was just a kid!"

"Then how long?" Ellen persists.

Jo bites her lip, does a quick calculation in her head, and finally says, "Since June."

Instead of looking relieved, Ellen just looks sad. She purses her lips and frowns, nods like even that answer is an all too expected disappointment.

"Mom, I love him," Jo says in a rush. "And I _know_ he loves me. I can feel it."

Another beat of silence—too long—before Ellen finally says, "You love each other? So much you had to hide it from me for five goddamn months?"

Jo doesn't have a ready answer to that, for all that she's been agonizing over it for weeks, and Ellen leaves through the nearest door when she gets tired of waiting. Jo doesn't follow.

She does try again the next morning.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," she says, stepping up beside her mother's elbow. She's not going to quibble over semantics—she knows John was right about that one.

"What's done is done, Joanna Beth," says Ellen, sounding more hurt than angry. A nauseous, guilty knot starts spreading low in Jo's gut, making her feel shaky and uncertain.

"Still," she says, forcing her voice steady. "I'm sorry. And I won't do it again." She doesn't promise, but she means it just as solemnly as if she had.

Ellen doesn't answer, and Jo doesn't know what to say, so they clean the bar in silence.

Ellen approaches _her_ later that night—just past closing, while Jo is wiping down the tables.

"Why him?" she asks, broom clutched tightly in nervous hands.

For a moment Jo has no idea how to answer. How can she possibly put into words all the things she knows in her very soul, things she's never tried to sit down and _describe_ before.

"He's everything," she finally says, shrugging helplessly. "We need each other."

"Because of the ritual?" Ellen presses, eyes shining with a threatening layer of wetness.

"Maybe," Jo admits. "I mean… he is _literally_ my other half. But honestly, what difference does it make, so long as he makes me happy?"

" _Does_ he make you happy?" Ellen asks, blinking stubbornly and keeping Jo locked with that same piercing gaze.

" _Yes_ ," says Jo without a second's hesitation. Ellen watches her quietly for a long moment, then goes back to sweeping as though the conversation never took place.

The next day they speak all of three words to each other. Jo gets more conversation out of Ash than her mother. She starts to wonder if she's biffed it all over again.

She's got the sunrise to herself the next morning, at least she thinks she does until her mom comes into view and sits down beside her.

"Okay," Ellen says without preamble. "You win. I won't pretend to be happy about it, but far be it from me to get in your way."

Jo can hardly believe her ears.

"You're not just saying that?" she presses cautiously. "You're not just planning to ambush John with a shotgun the second he sets foot in the bar?"

Ellen snorts and shakes her head. "No. But you should tell him to watch his step anyway. I don't plan on being happy to see him."

Jo lurches sideways to grab her mother in a tight, grateful hug. She holds on for dear life until Ellen's arms finally rise to return the gesture.

"Thank you," she whispers, and wonders if her mom's eyes are as wet as her own.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Converge**  
\- — - — - — -

  
John thinks, for all of two minutes, about not telling Jo that Sam called. All his instincts say he needs to keep her safe, keep her out of this mess—keep her at a distance so that if things go south, she doesn't end up an unnecessary casualty in a fight that isn't hers. But even as he thinks it, he knows exactly what Jo would say: ' _Like hell it isn't my fight. When do we leave_?'

Even if he had wanted to keep the information to himself, he would have failed. By the time he's got the truck loaded for departure, she's right behind him with her duffel in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

"You don't even know where we're going yet," says John as they slide into their seats and buckle in. He turns the key in the ignition and watches Jo fidget with the cap on a bottle of water.

"Just drive," she says. "You can fill me in once we're on the interstate."

John maneuvers his truck through the small parking lot behind Jo's apartment, and he's not sure whether to be relieved or terrified that he was _here_ when he got Sam's message. If he'd been anywhere else in the country, leaving Jo behind would have at least been an option—she would never have forgive him for it, sure, but at least he could reassure himself with the illusion that she was safe. Here, now, she's close enough to pick up on the ragged edge of his worry, even if she has no idea what's causing it.

They hit the interstate, and he doesn't have to give her the long version of the story. She already knows about the yellow-eyed monster trying to tear his family down. She knows about the Colt. She knows that one way or another John is going to find a way to take the bastard out, or die trying.

"It's the demon, isn't it," says Jo, her eyes holding steadily on the flat horizon.

"He got to my boys," John says, and his throat feels gravel-rough. "Dean's been out in California the past couple months. There've been omens cropping up all over the place, and I needed to know he and Sam had each other's backs."

"Oh god," says Jo, hitting him with a hard, scared look. "Are they okay?"

"Dean's in the hospital," says John. "Coma. Sam's with him, but he says the doctors aren't optimistic. Says Dean might not wake up, and god knows when the demon might turn up to try and finish the job."

"But you have a plan," Jo murmurs, because of course she can feel the fierce pulse of determination driving him now.

"Do you trust me?" John asks, hands tightening around the steering wheel.

"Sure do," says Jo. "Especially when you talk crazy."

"Good," says John. Because his idea is definitely a little crazy. Her eyes widen as he explains it, step by crazy step, and her eyebrows arch in an expression of skeptical disapproval. But she doesn't say anything, and he knows that come crunch time she'll be right where he needs her.

Sam doesn't meet them out front when they reach the hospital—doesn't want to leave Dean's side—but he gives them directions to the proper ward and stands when they step into the room. John hugs his son tight, and doesn't mind in the slightest when Sam hugs him back so hard the air squeezes right out of his lungs. There's an awkward moment where questions of proper etiquette are sort of up in the air, but then Sam hugs Jo, too.

They all stay standing as they circle Dean's bed, and John's hands clench into fists at his sides. Dean is hooked up to half a dozen machines, all monitoring and beeping and breathing for him. John already wanted to kill the yellow-eyed bastard that took his wife. Now he wants to tear it apart with his bare hands. He feels Jo's eyes on him, gentle and concerned, but he doesn't take his eyes off his son.

"Any change since you called me?" he asks.

"No," says Sam. "The doctors can't tell me jack, and Dean's… how do we even know he's still _in_ there?" Sam's eyes are dry, but they look red and sore, and John suspects his son is all cried out. His own eyes are stinging dangerously, but he doesn't have time for that now. He can't fix this if he falls apart.

"What are we going to do?" Sam asks, looking to him with vulnerable, dangerous hope on his face.

John opens his mouth to answer, but Jo beats him to it, her eyes narrowing as she says, "Something monumentally stupid."

"It will work," says John. "It has to. It's the only plan we've got." Jo blinks and looks away—her eyes might be wet, but John knows she's got herself under control. She'll do what needs to be done.

"Anyone want to fill me in on what the plan _is_ , exactly?" says Sam, glancing back and forth between them with suspicious eyes.

But it's safer if he doesn't know, and they don't have to twist Sam's arm to convince him to stay with Dean. Jo's more reluctant to stay behind, but they both know it's necessary. John has to do this part alone, and he hoists his bag of supplies higher on his shoulder as he ducks out of the room and navigates the hospital corridors. The stairwell door creaks as he ducks through it, and he follows cement steps down and down and down, all the way to the basement. The boiler room is empty, which is exactly how he needs it, and he takes the Colt out first. He holds it in his left hand as he sketches Azazel's sigil with his right, white chalk on dark cement, then sets up the remaining components of the summoning ritual.

John's not fooled for a second by the meatsuit Azazel shows up wearing. He cocks the gun and lays out his proposal with curt, clipped words, his skin crawling under the thing's rapt attention.

"How quaint," says the demon. "The Colt for your son's life. That seems nice and tidy, doesn't it? But you're going to have to do better than that."

"My soul," says John without hesitation. "But you deliver first. Dean wakes up, and I see that he's okay, and _then_ you can have what's yours."

"Fair enough," says the demon, eyes glinting gold and mouth twisting in a cruel smirk. "Meet me in room four twenty-six once you're satisfied that I've held up my end."

"No," says John. "It has to be somewhere else. I don't want you anywhere near my boys after this, and I don't want them to be the ones that find my body."

"Fine," the demon growls, calm sneer shifting to something more like irritation. "Pick somewhere else, the details don't matter to me. Are we sealing this deal or not?"

"We are," says John, and lowers the gun to his side.

Dean is already awake when John returns to the room, and Sam sits alone at his side. Jo is nowhere to be seen, but John knows she's close. He squeezes Dean's shoulder, and gives Sam a nod, and leaves the room almost as quickly as he entered it. He should maybe say something—maybe even something like goodbye, in case this doesn't work out and he doesn't get another chance. But he can't afford to harbor doubt right now, so he keeps his mind clear and focused as he leaves the hospital and walks seven blocks to the agreed-upon location.

It's an empty lot with shitty visibility, surrounded on all sides by thick trees and crawling bushes. John walks right to the center of it, and sets the Colt down on a crooked tree stump that stands chest high in the middle of the open space. When he turns around he finds the demon watching him.

"I'm almost surprised you came," it says with a sneer. "I guess you're braver than you are smart."

"It's been said before," says John, stepping away from the stump as the demon moves toward him. He keeps backing away as it approaches, his steps keeping pace as he circles towards the trees edging the lot.

"Easy, Johnny," says the demon. "You can't get cold feet now. The deal's done, and it's my turn to collect."

John stills where he stands, and his skin feels tainted and unpleasant when the demon steps close. Its breath smells of sulfur and death, the stench of hellfire wafting on the air. He can't see the stump or the colt from here, the demon's body completely blocking his view as it focuses the hateful intensity of flashing gold eyes on him. It raises a hand to John's face, fingertips tracing his forehead, down the angle of his cheek, and he feels the repellant sensation of oily fingers caressing his soul.

It hurts when those intangible fingers clench tight and try to take hold, but it must hurt the demon more, because John hears it hiss out a pained breath as it takes a jerking step back and yanks its hand away. Its eyes flash golden fury, bright and venomous, and John feels a dark smile spread across his face.

"What is this?!" the demon shouts, clutching at its hand as though it stings.

"You didn't do your homework, you yellow-eyed son of a bitch," John says, cold and triumphant. "You accepted a bad check. A man can't bargain with something that isn't his to trade."

"This is treachery!" the demon growls.

"No," says Jo, stepping around from behind it with the Colt in hand. "This is justice." She pulls the trigger, and the demon lands in the dirt, its body shaking with staccato jolts of lightning that flash from the inside.

They both stare until the flashes die away, and when the demon doesn't move, Jo steps forward and nudges the body with her toe.

"I can't believe that worked," she says, lowering the gun to her side. And John could make a smartass comment here, but he'd rather be kissing her. He waits for Jo to set the Colt aside so he can lift her into the air and hold her close, and her hair frames his face and tickles as he presses his mouth to hers, giddy relief flooding through him along with a thousand other emotions too intense to process right now.

"Come on," he says, finally setting her back on her feet. "We should get back to the hospital."

He calls Sam en route, just to make sure. Just to hear Sam say that Dean is still awake, that they're both still fine, that they're _safe_ for the first time in longer than John can remember. His feet can't carry him fast enough, and Jo jogs beside him, elbow brushing against him every third step or so.

"Thank you," he says, once he's dropped his phone back in his jacket pocket.

"Don't mention it," says Jo, and reaches for his hand.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Respite**  
\- — - — - — -

  
John doesn't even talk when they get back to the hospital. He just hugs his boys long and hard, his heart beating too fast. He'll feel guilty later, for the poor bastard the yellow-eyed demon was riding—the one lying dead in a clearing just a matter of blocks away—but for now there's no room in John's chest for anything but this.

Jo does the explaining—what little is necessary—and squeaks in surprise when Sam crushes her into a tight hug. Her apparent startlement lasts only a moment before her face softens into a smile and she hugs Sam back.

"And you're both okay?" Dean demands, calling attention back to where he sits against a mountain of pillows. " _Really_ okay?"

John knows his son hates being stuck in bed and hooked up to all those machines, but the doctors are insistent. Too impossible a recovery, too much like a miracle, and they're keeping him overnight for observation. John already told his eldest to stay put, no sneaking out before he's officially discharged. They'll all feel better when twenty-four hours have passed and the doctors still say that yes, Dean is a walking, breathing, fully recovered miracle.

"We're both fine," John says. When Dean still looks skeptical, he adds, "We're in a hospital, son. If we needed help, we'd have it." Besides, if John were hurt and hiding it, Jo would know and she'd tear him a new one. And John sure as hell wouldn't stand quietly by if Jo were trying to do the same.

Dean finally looks placated, settling back against the pillows and fidgeting in an attempt to get comfortable. "Awesome," he says. "So who wants to sneak me a cheeseburger from the cafeteria?"

Sam laughs, Jo smiles, and John is content to stand back and take it all in.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Release**  
\- — - — - — -

  
They stay in Dean's room until a tall, gangly doctor kicks them out for the night. He's friendly, but adamant that visiting hours are over. John's quiet, but Jo can still feel the wild kick of adrenaline pouring through him. She knows he'll be crashing at any moment. Just as soon as they have a second of quiet. Just as soon as he has time to process that they really made it through.

"You can stay with us, if you want," Jo tells Sam when all three of them reach the elevators. "If you'd rather stick closer to the hospital. We have space."

"Thanks," says Sam. "But don't worry about me. I'll just sneak back in again when the coast is clear. I'd… rather not leave Dean in here alone tonight. There's no way he'll stay put if I'm not there to keep an eye on him."

The elevator dings open and Jo laughs softly, stepping past the doors and pressing the lobby button. The other two follow inside, and in her peripheral vision, Jo catches sight of the quiet, amused warmth reflecting in John's eyes.

"Guess you'd better stick around then," she says, nudging Sam with an elbow. "You should eat something, though. I can hear your stomach growling from here."

"Yes, _ma'am_ ," Sam says with a smirk, and when the elevator deposits them on the main floor, he waves and heads to the right—towards the cafeteria.

Jo turns her attention to John and says, "Give me the keys. I'm driving." The fact that John does as she asks without so much as a surprised blink proves she's right to not let him get behind the wheel.

She drives them back to their motel as quickly as she can, weaving in and out of traffic to make better time. John is a buzz of noisy, energized sensations at the back of her mind, but the chaos is slowly quieting. By the time she parks his truck in front of their room, he's almost down to a neutral calm. He sways on his feet when he stands, and follows her inside. If Jo didn't know what zombies were actually _like_ , she might make the comparison here—he's as zoned out as she's ever seen him, and that's including the week he went three days without sleep.

"Shoes," she reminds him, then ditches her own as she follows him over to one of the beds—they got two this time, just in case Sam needed a place to stay. "Do you need anything?" she asks, pushing at his shoulder, gently but insistently, until he gets the idea and drops onto the mattress, sprawling exhaustedly on his back. "Water? Food? A stiff drink?"

"No," he says, reaching for her and getting hold of her wrist. He tugs, and she follows readily—curls up against his side and drapes an arm over his stomach. Her cheek rests against his shoulder, and her forehead presses against his throat where she can feel the slowly calming rhythm of his pulse. His arms come up to encircle her, warm and protective. In the back of her mind, where she feels him like a second heartbeat, all she's picking up is exhaustion—bone deep weariness—and beneath it, the quietly brightening lightness of relief.

"We did it," she whispers, the words an awed gust of breath. ' _We're free_ ,' she wants to say, though she knows it can't be quite that easy. The demon probably had contingency plans in place—allies and minions to do his dirty work. There's still plenty of mess to suss out and unravel.

But those are worries for tomorrow. For tonight, they've accomplished the impossible, and all Jo wants to do is revel in the satisfaction of release.

"I love you," she murmurs, twisting in John's arms to press a kiss to his jaw.

"Love you, too, sweetheart," he rumbles, thumb brushing back and forth along her arm.

Jo just smiles and settles closer.

 

\- — - — - — -  
 **Pass**  
\- — - — - — -

  
John and Ellen attend the graduation ceremony together. He offers her a ride to Omaha and is surprised when she actually says yes.

The drive isn't nearly as painful as he expects. The silence may be awkward, but it's not oppressive and angry. It might even be that Ellen has finally decided to forgive him instead of simply tolerating his existence.

The thought is a heartening one.

Creighton is every bit as packed and rowdy and overflowing as John remembers Stanford being, and the ceremony trudges past in an impossibly slow parade of names. John is bored out of his skull for most of it, but he wouldn't miss this for the world. His chest feels full and light, his own pride mixing with the excitement he feels through the bond when Jo's name is called. She crosses the stage, and Ellen whoops so loudly John's left ear rings for the next five minutes.

The ceremony ends, and Ellen is off searching for a restroom when Jo finally emerges from the throng of graduates. John doesn't hesitate to sweep his girl into a kiss.

"Congratulations, sweetheart," he murmurs, hugging her close. "I'm so goddamn proud of you."

"Thanks," she says, laughing breathlessly. Her tassel swings wildly when she steps away, drawing herself reluctantly out of the circle of his arms and back to a more conversation-appropriate distance. The metal band circling her thumb glints in the sun, but even that flash of light is eclipsed by the dazzling brightness of Jo's smile.

"So," says John, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "You managed to pass your classes _and_ save the world from demons. Do they give scholarships for that?"

Jo snickers and grins, cocking her head to the side. "I hope so," she says. "Otherwise paying for medical school is going to get interesting." John can tell from the easy comfort she's emanating that she's not actually worried about money.

"You told your mom yet?" he asks, and Jo shakes her head, grin widening.

"It's a surprise. I'm waiting for the right moment."

"You should tell her at dinner," says John. "I've got errands to run. It'll be just the two of you."

"Oh, please," Jo says, rolling her eyes. "You don't have any errands."

"True," John admits easily. "But you two should have some time alone. She doesn't get to see you very often, and besides. It's big news."

"Fine," Jo concedes. "But you'd better be waiting up for me after I drop her off at the hotel."

"You know I will," says John, moving in to kiss her on the cheek, soft and quick. "Cross my heart."

 

\- — - **fin** \- — -


End file.
